


Beneath the Mask

by audreyslove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-08 00:06:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12243243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyslove/pseuds/audreyslove
Summary: Written for SpookyOQ week.  Things get real for Regina and Robin at the Halloween Office Party. :)





	1. Chapter 1

She hates office parties.  _Hates_ them.  It's already enough that she has to spend over a third of each work day with these people, but now she's also expected to spend after hours time with them, too?

 

But Gold had insisted that they all attend this blasted costume party this year.  He sent out one of  _those_ emails two weeks ago — the type of email they knew better than to argue with.  It had said that this year’s Halloween office party would double as their annual team building event and that meant it was mandatory.  No exceptions, he said.

 

It struck Regina as odd, particularly because Gold isn’t a party person at all, and certainly not interested in anything as frivolous as Halloween.  But Gold  _is_ the kind of boss who would put them through something embarrassing for their annual team buildings event.  Last year they had been told to show up to work with a swim suit, hiking boots, a parka and a razor. And Gold had seemingly enjoyed each humiliating activity they went through that terrible day in the woods.

 

So, fine, he found a way to outdo himself. Now they will all be in costume for their annual torture night, hanging around the office after hours participating in god knows what activities like some sort of middle school dance gone wrong.  

 

The worst of it is that  _he_ will be there.

 

Robin.  She’s been doing such a good job of ignoring him since the  _last_ company event.  He just… he gets under her skin, vexes her.  He’s a typical new salesman, a smooth talker who thinks he can get away with anyone and leave her, the account manager, to figure out how his ridiculous promises of rush orders and discounts will possibly work.  

 

So she was destined to dislike him, from the start.  And it has nothing to do with their little… incident.

 

It has nothing to do with the fact he's seen a side of her she tries  _so desperately_ to hide from her coworkers.

 

Nothing at all.

 

Because the truth of it is, Robin and Regina did not meet for the first time at work.  No, they met during one of Regina's… “vacations”.  She’s so tense at work, so proper, so put together.  But it's a ruse, cloaking her real nature, her real passions and desires and impulses.

 

And they have to come out somehow, don't they?  So every now and then, she goes to the bars out in the city, right downtown.  They aren't the cleverly tucked away venues with their delicious food and discounted liquor.  No, she goes straight for the touristy bars and plays an out of town visitor looking for a party.  Or, rather, looking for a man to share her hotel room with.  

 

She has never had any problems finding a desirable suitor for the night.  Some of the men are pretty, but idiots.  She enjoys the flirting, the rush she gets when she makes a new connection, the anticipation of things to come.  She likes feeling reckless, throwing caution to the wind and going home with a near stranger.

 

But just over a year ago, while at one of those bars, she met a man who was new in town.  She had been instantly attracted based on looks alone — bright blue eyes, a deep dimpled smile, and that “it's been a few days since I shaved” ruggedness she finds herself really going for…

 

And then he opened his mouth.  A smooth voice with a gorgeous accent, and well, she was already doomed but that sealed the deal.

 

She thinks that she had noticed him first that night, but he was the one who approached her first, asking what he could get her to drink.  He complimented her drink choice while he sipped on a pint of Harp, and then he complimented her outfit (oh she dresses to play on these days, cleavage so careful arranged, clothing hugging tight at her ass).  She had worn burgundy that day, a tight scoopneck dress that clung tightly to her hips and barely covered her ass.  But the nice british stranger had called it lovely, said that it was a gorgeous color on her.  And she almost believed that he hadn't seen her as a piece of meat that night.

 

He had talked to her over drinks, shared stories of his family, listened as she opened up about things she'd never tell a person she would see again.

 

She took comfort in the fact he would always be a stranger to her, and confessed her anxieties, her fears, her troubled past, all of it.

 

They talked til the bar shut down. And then she suggested he come back to the hotel she had booked for the night, and he did.  He stripped her bare and worshipped her body, did things to her that no man has been able to do, made her come so hard her throat was hoarse from crying out.

 

It had been a beautiful, near perfect, shockingly honest night.  She has a habit of making up a secret life for this tourist she plays, a new identity to wear for the night.  But the only thing she had lied about that night was her job, where she lived, and her phone number.

 

She certainly hadn't lied in those few hours before she passed out, when the buzz of alcohol and pull of sleep had her forgetting all pretense and she admitted that had been the best sex of her life.

 

No,  _that_ wasn't a lie, try as she might to convince herself it was.

 

The next morning she had told herself it didn't matter how absurdly vulnerable and smitten she appeared to him, because she would never see or hear from him again.

 

But three weeks later, he was standing across the office from her, being introduced by Gold as the new salesman.  God, he gave her such a cocky smile as he wandered up to her and stuck his hand out to shake hers.

 

_“Regina, is it?” Robin asks, his eyes dazzling, knowing he has her trapped, “You know, you remind me of a Regina I once knew.”_

 

_“Really?” She tries to keep the flush of embarrassment from rising to her skin, but the telltale heat creeps up her neck and stings her cheeks.  Shit.  She follows it up with, “I'm afraid I'm not in touch with all the Reginas of the world, I believe the chances of me knowing her would be very slight indeed.”_

 

_“Mm, of course.  Especially since she lives in Sacramento, I believe, and was only here on vacation.  At least, that's what she told me.  But then again, she told me lots of things that may not be true.  I only mention her because, well, forgive me if I have a bit of an aversion to your name.  She hurt me terribly, you see.”_

 

_“Well if you’re finished with your little high school banter, I’d like to introduce Mr. Locksley to the rest of our office, Miss Mills.” Gold says shortly.  But he looks amused, he does, as if he caught on, as if he were reading their minds._

 

When she replays this moment she tells herself that Gold knew nothing, and it was only her paranoia.  She also tells herself the pain she so vividly remembers in Robin’s eyes wasn’t truly there.  That it was all an act, or perhaps a trick played by the fluorescent lighting.  Because Robin Locksley was  _not_ hurt by her.  He's teased her and tormented her over their night together for a  _year,_ you don't do that if someone  _hurt_ you.

 

So she's had to suffer that man, that infuriating salesman who knows every inch of her body and how to make it work for him, for far too many hours each day.

 

It's so unfair that she should have to suffer him for another social event.  And he’s going to be his witty, adorable, thoughtful, charming self, which just about has her contemplating running out of the building and never looking back.

 

But she needs this job.  She's paid well, and Gold, asshole that he is, has somewhat taken her under his wing.  He's grooming her, he's said so before.  He sees her as vice president material, and maybe that means in time, when Gold retires…

 

So she put on an oversized button down shirt and skinny, tight black slacks, made her hair nice and straight, and popped a little stage prop cigarette into her purse.  Boom.  Mia from Pulp Fiction.

 

 _He_ is wearing a pinstripe suit, with his hair slicked back, a stupid fedora over it anyway.  He's dressed as some 1920s mobster, even has some flashy, ridiculous gold plated cell phone  he's put in his breast pocket.

 

God, he's annoying.

 

And handsome.  

 

Annoyingly handsome.

 

She wanders over to the punch bowl.  If she's got to be in the same space with her coworkers after hours, she better get good and drunk.

 

But then he's wandering over to her, and  _fuck,_ she needs to find an exit strategy, because this is  _not_ happening.  Not when her hormones are racing, when she’s thinking about how he looks naked again.  Not when she’s planning on getting good and drunk, which he knows can loosen her tongue, bring out honest words she keeps bottled inside.  Oh god, no, he’s right there

“And who are you supposed to be?” he asks, filling a plastic cup with punch.

 

Regina sighs, and takes her cigarette out of her clutch, holding it in her hands and rolling her eyes at him.

 

“Ah, Pulp Fiction,” Robin says, taking a sip.  “You're sexier than Uma on her best day, though.”

 

“Please,” she rolls her eyes, “you're being inappropriate. This is the  _office._ We are at  _work._ ”

 

“We are at a  _party._ With alcohol,” Robin reminds, holding up his cup of spiked punch, “I think I can get away with telling you how gorgeous I find you even after you broke my heart.”

 

She scoffs.  “You always say that.  I'm not sure what gave you the impression that I would ever fall for your crap.” And she can't help it so she whispers, “It was one night Robin, it didn't mean anything.”

 

And fuck him for sounding so sincere when he shakes his head and argues, “No, it meant something.  To both of us.  I know the real you, Regina.”

 

“Yes, the version of me that lives in Sacramento and works in real estate, sure.   _That's_ the real me.  Please Robin, I fed you lies.  It was all just a game to me.”

 

“Now Regina, you know that's not true,” he soothes, and fuck him and his absurd confidence, he's an excellent salesman because of it.  “You may have lied about some of the frivolous details, but I know you, Regina.  And you know me.  You're not the only one who shared things that night.” She can't help it, she shivers, thinking of what he told her about Marian, of his father (the bastard), of his own fears of being a good father…. Is it possible?  Was that not total shit to make him sound like a good guy, like a man she'd want to sleep with?

 

“Regina. Why are you fighting this?”

 

Because she doesn't know how to trust and love.

 

But he doesn't need to know that.  She is just thinking of a clever retort when Mal catches her eye, a hand on her hip, her head tilted and eyes widened.  She's asking if she needs rescuing, she knows.  And thank god, because she  _does._

 

 _“_ Excuse me, Robin, Mallory needs me,” she says stiffly, walking away.

 

He lets her go, moves out of her way even.  She's never trapped with him, but she always somehow… feels uneasy.

 

She walks over to Mal, links arms with her as they scurry away from Robin.

 

“I don't know why you don't just fuck him and be done with it,” Mal groans.

 

“Mal!” she scolds.  “I told you before, I don't… I don't want to do that.”

 

“Oh please, you both eyefuck the shit out of one another all the damn time. I know he annoys you, but you want it bad.” Mal shoots her a devilish smile and adds, “And let’s face it, he's hot, I can't say I haven't thought about it myself at one point.  So go get yours, he's starving for you.”

 

She rolls her eyes at that and mutters something about not being interested in the slightest, but Mal knows that's a lie, doesn't she?

 

Emma interrupts them before they can finish the argument.  She looks cute, in a leather jacket with a little sheriff's badge, cowboy hat on her head.

 

“I admit it, I was dreading this event, but at least there's booze,” she says, taking a deep swig from the bottle of beer in her hand.  “Of course, that's already proving to be a problem.  Killian’s already wrecked.”

 

Regina and Mal share a knowing glance before laughing along with Emma.  Killian never could resist a good open bar.  He’s also never been Regina’s favorite, but before she can remind Emma of that fact, Belle rushes up to them, wrapping her arms around Emma from behind, giggling.

 

“Did you guys see there's a cauldron with apples we can  _bob_ for?” Belle asks, excitedly.  “This is absolutely ridiculous, but fun!  We never have  _fun_ at work anymore.”

 

Belle’s drunk, Regina realizes right away.  She's usually more… reserved.  Downright quiet and nerdy, if she's being honest. Before Regina can even think of something to say in response, Belle is practically skipping off (hopefully to find Mary Margaret, because it seems she has stolen her personality).

 

Emma, Mal and Regina trade confused glances.  But then Mal shrugs and comments, “Well, that is quite a sexy costume for a work event.”

 

It truly is, she’s in black tights and a scoop neck leotard, every curve on display.  If not for the little kitten ears, you’d never know she was supposed to be a cat.

 

Oh.

 

Regina snorts.  “True...but did you see Ruby's?  It makes Belle look like she's dressed as a nun.”

 

Mal snorts and pauses for a moment, scanning the room until her eyes lock with Ruby.  Regina follows her gaze.  She's in this little Red Riding Hood costume, ass barely concealed in the frilly skirt of her shirt dress and short red cape.  Her cleavage is out, peeking out of the ruffled white peasant top, pushed up and out by the corset she's wearing over that little shirt.

 

Ruby is talking to Jefferson now, touching him in a way that makes her look...quite pathetic. But then she sees Robin walking over to Ruby and she has to look away.  She can't — she doesn't want to look at that.  It's… inappropriate to be flirting at the workplace.

 

Oh god, is she rubbing his arm?  

 

Ruby’s... escapades… are well known.  Jefferson, Graham, that creepy IT guy... they’ve all at least claimed to have had a night with her.

 

So maybe it’s Robin’s turn.

 

Stop that, Regina.  Look away.

 

Mal must not catch on to her moment of jealousy, because she just continues with the conversation.  “Well that outfit is par for the course for Rubes.  I didn't see it coming from Belle.  I figured she'd be looking over expense reports for this entire party.”

 

Emma shakes her head.  “Belle  _loves_ Halloween.  Remember last year when she tried to get us all to go to that haunted house?  I swear to god we all broke her heart when no one went. But this time… she seems… well, weird as shit.” (Emma has no censor, and Regina both loves and hates that about her.)  

 

“Maybe she just got laid,” Regina offers, and well, it seems to fit. She's dressed like someone who just had a sexual reawakening.

 

“Fuck, I hope so.  That girl needs her pipes cleaned out badly.  Although frankly… don't we all?”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Emma says, with a sly smile. “My pipes are just fine.  And as soon as I get out of this after hours work related shit, I'm due for another  _cleaning.”_

 

 _“_ Ugh _,_ speaking of that,” Mal motions over to Mary Margaret, dressed in a white gown, her halo slightly askew.  David is close behind her, in a toga outfit.  “you don’t suppose the little angel got herself a taste of greek tonight, do ya?”

 

“Mallory!” Regina admonishes, fully picking up both implications of the word greek— god, no way would Mary Margaret do  _that_.  “He’s married.”

 

“And she’s… Mary Margaret.” Emma reminds.  “They probably came in late because they were both dreading this thing as much as much as we were.”

 

“Fine.  When are we starting the torture, anyway?” Mal asks, “I mean, look at all this work that went into the party.  Top to bottom decorations, open bar, for fucks sake a fog machine… what sort of team building hell are we in store for?”

 

“Team building?” Regina spins around to find Gold looking… genuinely confused.  “There's no team building event.  It's just a party.”

 

Regina groans.  “Then why did you send that email saying we all had to attend and that this would count as our annual team building event?”

 

But Gold just looks… skeptical.  “Now I need to know what you are on about.  Because corporate emailed me and said we had won a Halloween party for outstanding performance.  I said it wasn't necessary, but they insisted.”

 

“No,” Regina says, perplexed.  “There was an email from you, it said it was mandatory, that we all had to be here, it was—”

 

There's a snap of something that sounds like lightning, and maybe it is, because the power shoots out immediately after.  

 

She hears the muffled screams and protests of her coworkers, someone screaming shit about cell phone service down  (god they are annoying) as she feels around in the dark to get to her office, to get to her flashlight.

 

Minutes pass, and it's so fucking dark she can't make heads or tails out of what direction she's walking in.  God the lights need to be back on.  Maybe if the curtains could be drawn back, so they had some light from the street and moon...

 

Gold finds a flashlight first, orders for everyone to stay calm as he waves it slowly around the room..

 

She sees it first, the odd, contorted silhouette of a giant black cat against the wall.  “That wasn't there before,” she whispers to Gold, “What is that?”

 

He waves the flashlight over the object, more slowly now.

 

It's not until the flashlight hits her face that she recognizes her.  Belle.

 

There's blood coming out of her mouth, a perfect stream of red falling from her lips and dropping onto the floor below.

 

She hears the screams of her coworkers, but Regina does not scream.  She… studies.  Carefully.  Perhaps is a coping mechanism but she remains eerily calm as she wonders what type of person may do this to the sweet, sexy librarian type in the office.

 

Someone didn't just kill her.  They… made it hurt.

 

Her body is badly mutilated, spine contorted and leg bones bent and rearranged so she looks like a perfect silhouette of an arching black cat. There is blood and bone sticking out from her black leotard as she hangs from the ceiling from some sort of crude rope, flush against the wall… and something is dripping onto her,  Gold notices it too, as he slowly moves he light up to see the source of the liquid.

 

Written above Belle’s corpse, in what appears to be blood, is a very simple:

 

1 DOWN, 12 TO GO.

 

She feels Mal grab her hand then, hears her whisper in her ear, “There are only 13 full time employees of this branch… right?

 

Right.

__________________________

A/N: Get ready for a slasher movie spoof, as traptastic as I can make it. :)


	2. Blood

At first there's chaos. Screaming, shuffling away from Belle's contorted, lifeless body, and the wracked sobs of someone she can only assume is Mary Margaret. Then the light of 13 cell phone screens, as they all frantically try to dial for help.

But her phone isn't working. It says there's no service (impossible, she has excellent service at the office), and judging from the confused shrieks of others, she's not alone.

"Enough. Everybody stay calm," Gold directs, even though it's an absolute ridiculous request under the circumstances. "The lights are out, and the power is off. So let's all walk single file, to the stairwell and get out of here. It's only four flights down.

She's surprised Gold can think so quickly in a time like this.  He sounds so collected, so in control, but she knows him well enough to know he isn't.  He dated Belle, after all.  Years ago, but still,  it can't be easy to see the mutilated body of your ex lover.  And sure enough, she catches the silhouette of a shaky hand as he ushers everyone out of the office, hears the slight stutter in his voice as he tells everyone to move along.

 

It's so dark, and there's so many people that it's impossible to keep track of everyone.  Was everyone even in the office to see Belle?  She has no idea.

 

She's not sure she cares.  She's just going to get out of this office asap and run to that diner down the street and wait for the hot policemen with the hot cocoa and blankets to come to her.  Isn't that how it works, in movies?  

 

Gold holds the door open to the pitchblack stairwell.  He shines his flashlight down the stairwell and it somehow becomes more ominous in the weak light.  She’s suddenly aware of how many shadows there are, how many darkened corners they will have to walk past, danger looming everywhere.

People pool at the top of the stairwell, but no one seems keen on making the first treacherous step down.  

 

“Oh, well, I suppose I’ll go first,” Gold says, voice dripping with annoyance.  “Follow closely behind me.”

 

Regina follows him, and she believes it’s Mal behind her.  It feels like her delicate hand, gently gripping her shoulder as she walks behind her.

 

Three flights more to go.

 

Single file, down a black stairwell.  Everyone is moving too slowly, and then too fast, and it’s hard to judge what speed to go in the dark.  

 

Only two more flights now.

 

She’s clinging to the bannister tightly, regretting that she does not often take the stairs up.  She doesn’t know the height or width of these particular stairs from muscle memory.

 

Each step is a bit of a struggle, as she nearly slides off some steps, and hits the back of her heel on others.

 

Doesn’t matter.  They will be out of this mess soon.

 

Only one more flight to go.

 

“Why don't our phones work?” David asks into the darkness, frustrated as hell.

 

“Why the hell would you expect us to know?” Mal snarls, “We are all just as clueless as you— _hey!”_

 

Someone is pushing his way past everyone on the stairs in a frenzy.  He slams into Mal, shoves Regina aside as he runs.

 

When he blows past Gold and his flashlight, they see him.  

 

Jefferson.

 

What a pussy.

 

He's making his way to the exit door, and fine, he will clear a path for everyone else.

 

He barrels toward her door full speed.

 

And then… sparks fly from the door, and Jefferson screams as his body convulses and twitches in a way that does not seem human.

 

He's being electrocuted.

 

He literally _flies_ off the door, careening into Gold with a smack.

 

It's Emma who rushes to him, smacking cheek and begging him to stay with her.  “Jefferson, Jefferson?”

 

“Is he…?” Regina asks, but Emma shakes her head.  

 

“I can feel his pulse.”

 

There’s silence for a few moments, as everyone absorbs the new information.

 

“So the door is… _electrified?”_  Mary Margaret finally asks incredulously.

 

“Someone doesn't want us to get out,” Regina mutters.

 

“We’re trapped?” Its Zelena's voice, behind her.  Zelena never sounds afraid of anything.  But now she seems… unhinged.  Terrified.

 

“Were not trapped,” Gold says carefully, “there are other exits, and… we could try to break a window, let's not worry—”

 

Just then, Jefferson comes to with a cough and a sputter.  “Heard something… behind me… just ran.  I’m okay, but something was coming....”

 

But a piercing scream in the distance cuts him off.

 

“Are we all here?” Gold asks, and Regina's first thoughts fly to Robin.  She hasn't seen him since the lights went out, and fuck, she needs to make sure he's okay (why does she even care?  She doesn't like him).  But that scream wasn't Robin’s, she knows what that sounds like, and besides—

 

“That is a woman's scream,” Gold continues.   “I hear Zelena, Mal…”

 

“I'm here,” Regina calls out, “And Emma...And Mary Margaret— wait!  Where's—?”

 

“Ruby!” Mary Margaret screams, “Oh god, Ruby!”

 

They all try to run back up the stairs at once then, but the sheer amount of people and their haste seems to only slow them down.  Regina feels people bumping into her, feels the occasional smack of shoes against her ankles, elbows and arms and bodies too close to her.

 

God, she should have just called in sick today.

 

Back up four flights of stairs, each step by miserable step.

 

She’s not even sure what they will do when they reach the stop.  It’s pitch black out and there are so many areas of this office building to search.  It’s a bit of a maze, and Ruby could be anywhere.

 

But when Regina reaches the top of the stairs, she realizes she does not have to worry about tracking down Ruby.

 

Because she’s right there, illuminated by Gold’s flashlight.

 

Little Red Riding Hood, cloaked in red.

 

Except, upon closer inspection, she's not wearing her cape.

 

She's covered in blood, almost beautifully so.  A pool of blood frames her head, like a red halo,  Blood pours from her stomach and neck, creates a perfect circle of flowing red behind and over her.

 

Predictably, written over the wall are the words

 

2 DOWN, 11 TO GO

 

Fuck.

_____________

A/N: *dramatic gasp*


	3. Bones

“We need a plan,” Gold says, he's leading them back into the office… where Belle’s body is, and no, is he crazy?

 

“I'm not going back in there!” Mary Margaret screams.  “There's… Belle is…”

 

“Well do _you_ have a better plan?” Gold asks, “Because our options are fumbling around in the dark somewhere we don't know, staying here in the hallway with another dead body, or going back to the place we spend 8 hours a day that we know by heart — and I know there are more flashlights and matches, so…”

 

No one can argue, really, so they follow.

 

Regina stays close to the front of the group.  It's.. maybe not the best position to be in, if anything were to jump out at them, it would attack her and Gold (and Graham, the fucker has moved to the front of the line) first, but Regina is tired of playing it safe.  For fucks sake, there’s a part of her that wants to _live_ bubbling under the surface and she is going to let that part free tonight.  That part of her that is an adrenaline junky, who loves to fight and fuck.

 

She’s bringing her out tonight.  Hell, she deserves to be herself, if only for a little bit, before she dies.

 

It’s silent inside their office.  Completely quiet, and dark.  People file in behind her, until the door slams behind her, the last person must have shuffled in.

 

“Alright, let’s find flashlights, matches, candles anything we can use for light.” Gold still sounds so calm...almost eerily so, given the circumstances.  “We have to figure out an exit strategy.  All ideas welcome.  But we need more light first.”

 

People start to split from their group, awkwardly moving and bumping into chairs and desks on their quest.

 

But Gold… Gold has his flashlight focused on the far wall, looking perplexed.

 

It takes Regina a second, but then she realizes what he looking at.  He is looking at nothing.

 

Nothing when there should be something — specifically Belle’s mutilated body.

 

It's gone.

 

Regina isn't the only one who notices.  She hears shrieks and sobs, murmurs from her coworkers as they realize that while they were trying to escape, the killer was in the office, cleaning up his mess.  

 

It's David who finally speaks out loud.  “Belle’s body — it's not there anymore… where did it—”

 

“For fucks sake David stop asking questions no one knows the answers to,” Mal grumbles. “And Mary Margaret, stop crying.  We're all traumatized here.  Your tears won't help.”

 

“How can you be so heartless?” Mary Margaret sniffles, “There's a killer in this building and we can't get out!”

 

“I suppose it would be more helpful for me to moan and stutter about, that's been proven an effective method to avoid death—”

 

“Leave her alone, Mallory, she's scared,” Robin interrupts. And god, hearing his voice has her breathing out a sigh of relief she didn't know he was holding in.  He's okay.

 

“Anyone who has a flashlight or any type of light source anywhere please go and get it,” Gold orders, “And… anything… to defend ourselves.  Travel in groups, just in case the killer is still here. We all meet back here in five minutes.”

 

The crowd starts to disperse, cell phone screens used as makeshift light sources.  

 

They should have used a buddy system, Regina thinks, after a few minutes of bumbling in the darkness, hearing doors and drawers open and slam, people scurrying around amidst muffled chit chat.

 

This is a disaster.

 

Regina feels a hand just by her elbow.  Soft gentle hands, calloused fingertips… she knows those hands.

 

“You okay?” Robin whispers into her ear.  

 

It's pitch black out, and there's the threat of death weighing in the air and all she wants to do is feel alive for a moment.

 

“Not really,” she says, turning her head so she can see him (her cell phone is out and it barely catches his face).   She leans into his touch, lets him wrap his arm around her as she confesses, “but, I'm better knowing you're alive.”

 

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” he murmurs.

 

She spins now to face him, what she can see of him, anyway.  It's so dark, she feels… protected, cloaked in anonymity.  It's just them in this moment.

 

His hands are wrapped around her, one draws up her spine, rubbing in a way that feels so damn safe.  She places her hand on his chest and sighs, rubbing up over his suit, feeling the muscles tense under her touch.

 

“Regina..” he breathes, and god, her name should _not_ sound that sexy, but it does.

 

There's a violent killer attacking them, threatening to pick them off one by one.

 

She has plenty of real things to fear. Who knows if she will even survive this, so what is holding her back?

 

“Robin,” she breathes, “I know I've been… unfair to you, but—”

 

Lights go on, warm fluorescent  brightness pierce through the warm bubble of a moment they had while blanketed in invisibility.  

 

Regina jumps out of Robin’s arms, falling back several feet and looking mortified.

 

“Generator must have kicked on,” Graham says, noting “these are the emergency lights.”

 

“Thank god,” Regina murmurs, looking down at her cellphone, displeased to see it still says no service. She picks up the phone at the reception desk, and sure enough, those lines are still down.  Damn.

 

“Now that we have light what we need is a way to get that door open,” David says.  “I don't know what we need, but something rubber would help.  And there's other exits, we may want to try them…”

 

“There's the exit to the roof,” Zelena offers.  “Maybe if we get up there, there's a way we could…”

 

“We'd be trapped 8 stories up,” Graham reminds her, “how do you expect we get down?”

 

“I don't know but I don't want to just sit here waiting to be picked off!” Zelena shouts.

 

“Alright, let's focus.  We have light, we have resources.  Things should be fine if we all just stick together.  Now… where's Gold?”  Davis looks around the room.  “Who else is missing?”

 

“Killian,” Emma mutters.  “He… uh, I haven't seen him actually… has anyone?”

 

“We were um, drinking on Gold’s balcony,” Graham admits.  “When the lights went out he was right next to me, but then I lost him somewhere near the stairs.”

 

“Shit,” murmurs Emma, fear lacing her voice.  “We have to— we all have to find him.”

 

“Okay,” Robin says, “everyone stick together.  We are going to go room by room and search for Gold and Killian.”

 

It's bulky and crowded, searching as a group of nine.

 

They hang outside of doorways and bump noisily into desks.

 

And then a loud bang from the hallway shakes them all.  

 

“Someone’s out there.” Emma holds a knife she must have procured from the kitchen, pointing towards the door of their office.

 

“Okay, men first,” Graham stalks towards the exit to the office.  Regina rolls her eyes, moving to the front, Mal at her side.  

 

She’ll be damned if she is to be protected like some damsel in distress.

 

When the doors to the hallway open, they find everything empy.

 

Completely so.  

 

Ruby’s body has similarly disappeared.  The words written above corpse are now suspended over nothing.  There’s a faint trace of blood, but certainly not the giant puddle that existed before.  

 

But how was this area cleaned so quickly?

 

“What in the hell—?” Graham mutters, and then, “Did anyone check for a pulse?”

 

“She was covered in blood,” Regina reminds him, “and lifeless… no one thought to.”

 

“No one can survive that amount of blood loss,” Emma says, as if she has knowledge on the subject.  “Her body was moved.”

 

“Are we sure there was that much blood, I didn't look too hard,” Mary Margaret asks, ever hopeful.  “And I don’t see much on the floor now…. Maybe she’s out somewhere, maybe she’s—”

 

“Maybe,” Robin humors her.  Regina rolls her eyes at his obvious lie.  “But for now, let’s look for Killian and Gold.”

 

“Shall we split up or stay together?” Jefferson asks, rather timidly.

 

“Let’s stick together, for now,” Graham requests. “I don’t want to deal with splitting up and finding everyone again, and we know the places he’s likely to be, if he’s…”

 

He doesn’t need to finish that sentence for them to know the meaning.

 

They search the office thoroughly, and then the hallways, the communal bathroom in the hall.

 

Then, near the far side of the stairs, they hear it.

 

“Everyone!” Gold calls, “In here, now!”

 

“Gold?” Graham calls.  “Where are you?”

 

“In here _now,”_ Gold demands again.

 

And they are nothing but loyal employees, so they trudge up the stairwell, to the fifth floor, following the sound of his voice.  Graham first, Regina right behind him.

 

Gold repeats the same phrase, telling them to get in “here” immediately, like he does with those damn emergency meetings…

 

Where the fuck is “here”?

 

But when Regina reaches the top of the stairs, she realizes she does not need to worry about where “here” is, not at all.   Gold is right there, against the far wall.

 

“Oh Jesus Christ what the _fuck_!” Graham screams, backing away.

 

Gold is…

 

Well, Regina didn’t think it could get worse than Belle.  And this, in the light (even the muted emergency lights) it’s...too much.

 

He’s sitting with his intestines in his lap, layers of gore and blood piled high.  The way his lifeless body is positioned, he looks like he’s staring down at his own guts, as if he was fixing to eat a large plate of sausage coated in marinara sauce.  

 

To the right of his body is a voice recorder, repeating the same phrase in Gold’s Scottish accent.  Though it’s repeated a few different _ways._ Whoever killed him has spent time in the office.  Around them all.  Might even _be_ one of them.

 

Shit.

 

“Okay, everyone look away,” David directs, motioning at the body.  Regina knows he’s mostly concerned about Mary Margaret.  He is weak for that woman, loves her, perhaps.  He may be married to someone else, but she is who he cares for.

 

Many turn away, but Regina is not faint of heart, so she does not.  There’s something jutting out of Gold’s chest, a curved object, stained red with chunks of flesh falling from it.  

 

It’s Graham who first approaches and examines the body, because they have to know now, have to make sure he’s really dead.  “Oh god…”  he winces and stutters.  “I think it’s a piece of his rib. _Fuck!_  The son of a bitch stabbed him in the heart with his own rib.”

 

She never liked Gold all that much.

 

In fact she has wished him dead several times before.

 

But some fates are too cruel for even the worst of bosses.  

 

She can stare at the body no more and looks away, focusing her eyes towards the right side of the corridor.  The last thing she sees before the lights cut out yet again is the predictable words, written in blood.

3 DOWN, 10 TO GO

And then there’s just darkness and screaming.


	4. Cemetery

At least they are better equipped for a blackout this time.  They’ve got the light of their phones all worked out, and many have other, more efficient lighting devices (mostly scented candles, but it works in a pinch).  They don’t talk about the tape recorder, the one that clearly recorded Gold during several days at the office.  No one wants to state the obvious — everyone is now a suspect.  

 

It’s just so much easier to assume the person is a temp, or maybe a vendor, someone who visited frequently, perhaps.

 

It does no good to start accusing one another, so Regina shuts it out of her mind.

 

“Killian is still missing,” Emma says, her voice finally wavering, giving a hint of fear.  

 

“No one has seen him since Belle’s murder,” Mary Margaret can’t help but speak up.  “Look, I don’t want to be the first one to say it, but what if he’s the one...doing this?

 

“Please, Killian doesn’t have the balls,” Mallory gripes.

 

“What does that mean?” Mary Margaret asks suspiciously, “Are you saying you admire the courage of this asshole, because—”

 

“It means Killian is a pussy, is what it means.  And pussies generally don’t stab people with their own rib bone, for fucks sake!”

 

“Enough!”  Zelena shouts.  She sounds… like she lost it.  Her voice is wild and frightened, so uncharacteristic of the brave, cocky bitch Regina deals with all day in the office.  “We need to get out of here and none of this is helping!”

 

“She’s right,” David complies, “and look, there’s too many of us to all stay together, especially in the dark.  We’ll lose people too easily.  We need to split up.”

 

“Agreed.” Robin says, “Let’s split into two groups.  And everyone look out for one another.  We need to find a way out.”

They all shuffle into groups and well, isn’t that predictable?  Of course Robin would find his way to be in her group.  And she’s so annoyed, she almost protests and insists on switching to the other side.  She's not even sure why she's annoyed with him right now.  It may have something to do with the fact that he keeps distracting her from all the murder going on with his sweet words and good looks and tantalizing aftershave... he doesn't need to know that, of course.

She should just switch groups.

But... Mallory is in her group, as is David (how he’s not with Mary Margaret, she will never know) and Emma, and well, the other group consists of Zelena, Graham, Jefferson  _and_ Mary Margaret.  She'd rather take her chances hoping that Robin won’t try to talk to her about things she said or was about to do in the dark than to join up with the office's most annoying personalities.

So she stays.

 

“There are so many exits by the warehouse,” Robin muses to their group, we should check there to see if there's a way out.”

 

David agrees, and Regina just doesn't care enough to argue.  She lets them lead.

 

This is getting tiring.

 

.::.

 

The first floor of the building leads into the warehouse.  The entrance door is open, not electrified — something that surprises Regina.  But the warehouse doors are all shut tight, Robin tests the emergency exit doors, throwing a bag of dry cement at the handle.  It hisses and sparks each time.  The exit doors _are_ electrified, it seems.  

 

“There maybe something in here that can help us pry the door open.” David looks determined.  “Look for box cutters, rubber - maybe old tires of the sort… and the chemicals… I really don't want to make a bomb, but… if it comes down to it… if you see potassium sulfate or liquid nitrogen, note where they are…”

 

He's droning on, going on his own quest with his own flashlight walking down the far aisle alone.

 

“I’ll take the next aisle,” Mal offers, holding a candle with her.  Emma doesn't have a source of light, so she clings to her, offering to help.

 

And that means Regina is stuck with…

 

Fuck it, she can't do this.  Regina is far too anxious about other things than to have a talk about the fact she almost had a little makeout session with him during the last blackout.  She’s going alone.

 

She walks down the third aisle without saying a word to him, reminding herself that she is _not_ scared, that she can defend herself, that she's a survivor.  But it's only minutes before Robin seeks her out, his flashlight bobbing in the air as he catches up to her.  He grabs at her free hand, and she lets him take it, before realizing there’s a slight tremor she hasn’t quite been able to tamp down.  Fuck.

 

“Hey, you’re going to be okay,” Robin whispers into her ear, his hand rubbing up her arm tenderly. “I promise, Regina, no matter what happens, I’m going to do my best ot make sure you don’t get hurt—”

 

“Please. Give me a break,” Regina shakes her arm free of his touch.  “Do you think you have some magical ability to keep everyone safe?  People keep dying, Robin, and you can't stop them.  Just leave me alone, there's nothing here—”

 

“Stop it,” he hisses, “stop acting so cold to me.  We had a moment, upstairs, and you know what?  We've had so many moments over the past year.  There's a mad killer on the loose.  Our lives are in danger, Regina, I'm telling you I'm going to protect you with my life.  Does that mean nothing to you?”

 

No, it doesn't, she thinks (lying to herself has never been satisfying, why does she do it?).

 

She's at a loss for words, can't say a thing.

 

She hates herself for how much she likes him.

 

But her silence must do a good job of covering up her true feelings, for it has him scowling and avoiding her eyes.  “Fine.  Seems I was wrong all along, Regina.”  He runs his hand through his hair and rubs his eyes.  “You aren't the person I thought you were.  At least if I die tonight, I’ll die knowing that you don't care about me at all.”

 

She bites her lip, and thinks of what to say.  She should say something.  Anything.  But her heart is knocking hard in her chest and she's paralyzed.

 

He's walking away when they hear the thunderous clap of objects falling.  There's a short muffled scream.

 

David.

 

They run together towards him.

 

Together but apart, distance between them seemingly more ominous.  Emma and Mal are already in the aisle, staring over what she thinks may be David.  Thinks, but does not know, because it's not like David is visible.

 

She can only see his ridiculous greek sandals, matching his toga outfit.  And a small piece of string is wrapped around his ankles.   

"Fuck," Emma mutters, in this uncharacteristic, breathless way.  There's no classic "Emma Swan" heat to her words, no anger, no surprise.  Just the resigned acceptance of yet another tragedy.

 

A giant metal box of chemicals fell on top of him, it seems, and there isblood gushing from what must be his head.  Several oversized bags of cement are covering his body, the final one was opened, poured over him like sand or dirt over a makeshift grave.

 

There’s a small sign on the box of chemicals, making it appear like a makeshift tombstone.

 

HERE LIES DAVID

VICTIM #4. ONLY 9 TO GO

 

“This was written…recently.” Robin mutters, and Regina wonders why he seems so confident of that fact.  But then he speaks further.  “There wasn't enough time to write that between this falling and us finding David.  He's been watching us… this whole time, planning his move.”

 

Regina feels herself shake.  Mal wraps her arms around her defensively.  

 

“He's here somewhere.  He's somewhere in the shelves,” Robin whispers.  Her eyes fly to the shelves, and she wonders why she had to work at a company that sells chemicals, of all things.  Dangerous chemicals, that could fall on them at any moment.

  
Robin focuses on the shelves, and then his eyes grow wide and he yells to high heaven, a desperate, warning “ _RUN_!!!!”


	5. Chapter 5

Zelena doesn't belong here.

 

She doesn't belong amongst these people, at this hideous party gone wrong.  She never belonged in this low level job in the first place.

 

She was destined for greatness.  She was top of her class, motivated and gifted and naturally talented.

 

She was going to start her own business, she was going to _be_ something.  

 

But people are cruel, and vindictive and oh-so-petty.

 

She couldn't help being the smartest, the strongest, the most beautiful…

 

This is all Iris’ fault.

 

True, she really shouldn't have tormented Iris, the high school classmate with the perfect parents.  The girl was smart, creative, and well, she did threaten Zelena a bit.  Iris reminded her of the worst parts of herself.  That social awkwardness that leaked out of her in everyday conversation.  Zelena _felt_ like that on the inside, like she never fit or knew how to act.

 

Hell even now, she wanted to dress up as a witch, wanted to paint her body green and be _wicked_ , but that would not be well received.  So she's in a tight sexy mermaid outfit instead (she can hardly move in this damn thing, if only she knew she'd be running for her life today, perhaps she would have gone for a more athletic costume), red hair in perfect waves down her side.

 

Iris would have dressed like a witch for Halloween.  In fact she probably did that every year.  Iris, much like Zelena, believed in the supernatural, but unlike Zelena she had the courage to embrace it.  She spoke of seances and witchcraft, things Zelena desperately wished she could be free to discuss, if she had the freedom and courage to be so different.

 

So she envied Iris, terribly, and that's why she made her life miserable.  Opened her locker and decorated it with hateful words mocking her for her crushes, her taste in music, movies and clothes.  

 

Iris worked hard on original stories for the school paper, and Zelena would do a live, sarcastic reading after each one was published, often when Iris was purposely in earshot.  And then there was Iris’ artwork, celebrated by the school, recognized for its talent by being framed on the walls of the school.  Zelena would criticize openly until she or someone else eventually ripped it off the wall or scribbled angry nonsense in sharpies over it.

 

It had been ridiculous because Iris was ungodly creative and talented.  Zelena was actually a decent writer and artist herself, though never as talented as Iris (she knew that, deep down inside).  Luckily, her popularity and confidence had been enough to convince almost the entire student body that Iris’ work was awful and worthy of mockery, and Zelena's work was brilliant.  That hurt Iris the most, Zelena knew, so she continued to do it, until Iris stopped writing and painting entirely.  

 

After graduation, Zelena thought little about the girl she made miserable, and focused her efforts on living up to the high standards she set for herself.

 

But Zelena ran into Iris years later, while visiting her hometown.  She was a senior in college, nearly set to graduate.

 

Iris was dressed in black, pale skin almost shining under the harsh mall lighting, hair dyed a deep ebony, thick eyeliner making those blue eyes pop out.  

 

Even with this absurd costume on, she still somehow managed to look beautiful, and it killed her.  

 

_“Oh, Iris, what have you done to yourself?” Zelena asks feigning concern.  “You look so… homely, so sick.”_

 

_But Iris is no longer the shy girl she had been in high school.  Something had emboldened her, made her more confident.  “I would worry about yourself, if I were you,” she says simply, staring her down._

 

_“Is that at threat?” Zelena cackles, “oh dear, have you lost your mind recently?  Shall I call the mental institution?”_

 

_But Iris just shakes her head.  “I really had hopes you would have changed by now,” Iris mutters.  “But If you haven't, it's just as well.  Things have a way of… working out.”_

 

Irish had looked so… content.  It was eery, had stuck with her over the years, sending a chill through her spine.

 

And then… a week ago Iris - or someone who set a page up pretending to be her - sent her a message on facebook.

 

_Zelena,_

_I want you to know I had been watching you and rooting for you.  I had hoped, Zelena, that one day you would change.  That you would repent and seek forgiveness for the many you've tormented over the years.  But alas, thirteen years have passed since we graduated, and you are still as rotten as the day you left those hallways._

_I know you believe in things greater than ourselves. If you didn't you wouldn't have spent so much time mocking me for believing the same.  Oh, your self hatred runs deep, doesn't it?  I'm afraid my hatred for you is nearly as strong.  Anyway, my time on this Earth is short.  So I curse you, Zelena.  And I leave you with the knowledge that you won’t live to see the new year.  In fact, sometime this year, you will die a brutal and violent death._

_Of course, Karma is a very real thing.  Even without my intervention, Karma would do the job, and you would inevitably fall victim to some terrible fate in this life or the next… but I've always been a bit impatient.  So make no mistake.  This death you suffer?  This will be_ my  _doing._

_And the afterlife for someone like you will not be pleasant… but you know that didn't you?_

 

Zelena had laughed it off, tried to publicly lock her, but her fellow classmates were no longer interested in laughing at Iris _._

 

_“She has a mysterious blood disorder,” her classmate Bobby mentioned.  “Going in for a bone marrow transplant soon, she's been on chemo.  She's dying and hallucinating, Zelena.  Be the bigger person and let it go._

 

But a week after sending that message, Iris was dead.  And then… things started happening that Zelena couldn't explain.

 

Things appear in her house she has no memory of ever buying or using.  There are creaks and groans in her house that have no godly reason to do so. 

 

She is convinced objects in her house move at night.  Her dreams are lucid and terrifying.

 

She sees danger at every corner, now.

 

Because, after all, she's been cursed.

 

“Zelena?” Mary Margaret calls, “what's your opinion?  where should we search next?”

 

“It doesn't matter,” Zelena groans.  “We won't find it.  It's not…  a person.”

 

“Okay,” Jefferson sighs, focusing the flashlight on her.  “You need to tell us everything you know.”

 

Zelena nods, tears pricking at her eyes.  “This is all about me,” she sobs.

 

Mary Margaret groans.  “how predictable.”

 

“Mary Margaret, hush!” Graham says.  He's in his high school letterman jacket, and he looks ridiculous.  Dressed up as the high school athlete who can't give up the best years of his life — almost as pathetic as she is.

 

“I… I have been cursed,” Zelena says bluntly.  “Someone who felt like I had wronged them said so.  Told me I wouldn't live to see 2018.” She shivers, adding “She died last week.  After cursing me.  And let's face it, someone is killing people and then the bodies are disappearing.  That's not a murderer.  That's something supernatural.” She gulps, looking at Jefferson.  He's illuminated by the flashlight, shadows dancing over his face, and in this warm glow he looks as frightened as she _feels._ “Her spirit is after me,” Zelena says plainly.  “She… _it_ wants to _kill_ me.”

 

“Don't be ridiculous, the dead spirit of someone you were mean to isn't going around killing your coworkers just to get back at you.  You need to calm down.”  Graham groans.  “We have enough to worry about with a killer - possibly more than one - on the loose.  And we need to find Killian, he’s—”

 

Graham is interrupted by a loud creaking sound coming from Zelena's left.  It's loud and ominous and most importantly, heard by  _everyone._

 

She  _knew_ she wasn't going crazy.

 

  Zelena instinctively runs as fast as her tight skirt will allow… narrowly missing a bookshelf that's tipping over.

 

It crashes with a tumultuous boom.  The books topple and boom smack on the thin carpet of the office, shake the ground underneath their feet, books sliding into haphazard piles behind her.

 

“Did you _see_ that?” she screams at Graham.  “I told you—”

 

“I think that was my fault,” Mary Margaret interrupts, “I knocked into it pretty hard, and then it shifted, and—”

 

“ _No._ It's _her.”_ Zelena thinks of Iris, her ghost giggling and toying with her.  “Is it too late to apologize, do you think?  I could… I could just...”

 

“Zelena for once can there be a crisis you _don't_ try to co-opt into your own drama?” Graham sighs.  “We need to—”

 

“You’ve got to admit she has a point about the disappearing bodies,” Jefferson mutters.  She sees the way the others look at him, all judgmental and uneasy.  And fuck them, they don’t understand this.

 

There's a whisper of something, a smack of a cape hitting the window, from the outside.

 

It's Iris, she's watching them from outside, watching and waiting.

 

“It's _her!”_ Zelena insists, pointing at the window.  “Did you see that?”

 

“That was just the wind, Zelena, it was a tree branch.” Mary Margaret's voice is softer now, more concerned.  It's incredibly patronizing but she can't find it in herself to care.

 

“I have to apologize,” Zelena says, determined now.  “If I go out there, get down on my knees, and beg her—”

 

“Yes, we'd all like to go outside,” Graham agrees, “let's focus on that, Zelena.  Find us a way out and you can make all the apologies to ghosts you want.”

 

“The roof!” she cries, suddenly remembering how unlikely it is that they'd be prevented from going out there, “I could apologize on the roof, to the heavens.”

 

She's running towards the stairwell before anyone can stop her, faintly aware if he screams behind her telling her not to go.  But she won't listen.  

 

The roof door is indeed open, and it validates her belief that this is what Irish wanted.  She crawls on her knees in the center of the roof.  “Iris, what I did to you was wrong,  Please forgive me,” she begs.  But there is no voice, no sign her apology has been accepted.  So she continues.  “I always liked your writing,” she gulps.  “I was… jealous.”

 

Still no answer from Iris.

 

“I liked your style,” Zelena goes on, “I always loved black, and your wardrobe was spot on.”

 

Apparently the way to an angry ghost’s heart is _not_ through complementing their fashion sense. So she tries a different approach.

 

“You were everything I wished I could be.  Confident and courageous and strong and talented...I am a fraud compared to you!  Is that what you want to hear?”

 

This time, she hears a loud snap towards the edge of the building.

 

Zelena smiles.  “Iris?” she asks, walking towards the edge of the roof.  “Am I forgiven?  Is the curse broken?”

 

“Zelena come back,” Jefferson urges.  “it's raining and there's no fence around the edges, you could slip.”

 

But she's not listening.  She just steps ever closer to the source of the noise.  It sounds like it's just one story down, so close….

 

“Zelena please,” Graham pleads.  She's aware he's walking towards her, but he's being careful on the wet painted surface, not walking with a purpose like she is, and he won't stop her from making amends and breaking his curse.

 

She's just going to peer down from the edge, just going to get closer—

 

“Zelena _No!_ Stop, wait… you're too close to the edge, you could—”

 

It's as if Mary Margaret can see the future.

 

Her heels catch in on some sort of wire, and then she's sliding on something _very_ slippery, like some sort of oil..  She can't even process what's happened before she's toppling, falling, the edge too close to avoid falling off.

 

Maybe she could have kept her balance… had she been wearing a better outfit.  But she went with heels and a mermaid style green skirt instead of a wearing a black flowy witches outfit, and her balance is imprisoned the same way her true self has been all these years.

 

She should have had the courage to be herself, for once, at least before she died.

 

It's the last thought she has before her head hits the pavement eight stories below.  

 

Then everything goes blissfully black.

 

.::.

 

This time, Mary Margaret doesn't scream.  She's tired of screaming.  She doesn't even look at the body.  She just turns and retreats down the stairwell, Graham next to her, Jefferson behind her.  They are just… silent.

 

Until they get back to their office and see words written on the window.

 

5 DOWN, 8 TO GO

 

“Five down?” Mary Margaret shakes, “but before there were only three victims, that means—”

 

“Someone else died,” Jefferson finishes.  

 

There is another scream in the distance, somewhere, not too far away, and Mary Margaret cringes.  “It won't stop, will it?” She asks.  “It will never stop until we are all dead.”

 


	6. Fog

It's unlike Mallory to scream.  

 

But the spotlight coming from outside, shining in the window must catch her off guard, has her screaming and embracing Regina tightly.

 

Regina doesn't dare look outside to see the source of the light.  But Robin does, the bastard.

 

She hears his little gasp, his regretful sigh, and then he's muttering “don't look,” continuing towards their office to meet back up with the others.

 

“Who was it his time?” Regina asks solemnly.  She's not one to be cavalier about death, but it seems trauma can change a person.

 

“Zelena,” he says just above a whisper.  His fingers wrap around her tight, Mallory clinging tightly to her other side.

 

“Damn it,” Emma hisses, sounding more annoyed than scared or angry.  As if she were caught in bad traffic instead of a horror film. “Are you sure you saw someone on the shelves?  How did they get to the other end of the office before us?”

 

“I’m not sure what I saw,” Robin concedes.  “and David might have set off a boobytrap of sorts that was already there for us, but someone wrote that… tombstone for him.  Someone was nearby, and we can’t risk toxic chemicals being dumped on us, can we?”

 

“I guess not,” Emma mutters.

 

“Shh, I hear something,” Robin says, motioning to the top of the stairwell.

 

Emma gets her knife out, and Robin reaches under his suit and pulls out some pipe he must have procured from the warehouse.

 

Regina has only a flashlight, Mal is armed with a scented candle.  They shrug at one another and follow Robin and Emma up the stairs.

 

And then they creep, prepare themselves for battle.

 

Anything could be on the other side of that door, Regina thinks.  Someone armed to the teeth with guns and knives, while they are armed with random appliances at best.

 

But if they are quiet, they may have the element of surprise.

 

She doesn’t dare breathe.

 

Even Mal is uncharacteristically stiff and tense as they stalk towards the door.  Robin stands by the door,  holds up three fingers, then two, then one…

 

BOOM!

 

He opens the door in a violent, angry sweep. They pile out together, fierce and ready for battle.

 

But….

 

On the other side of the door there is no monster.  There is no killer. It's just Mary Margaret, Jefferson and Graham… posed for battle in much the same fashion as they are.  Jefferson holds a frying pan in mid air, Graham has a pair of scissors, blades out in front of him, and Mary Margaret just has her mace out.

 

They all breathe a sigh of relief to find its only one another.

 

“Zelena died,” Graham says.  “Fell off the roof.”

 

“We saw,” Emma breathes, “Its—”

 

“Where's David?”  Mary Margaret asks, “Where is he?”

 

Her eyes go wild and big.  Regina can't stand to see it.  

 

“Mary Margaret—”

 

“ _No.”_ It's still so far, but the flashlights pick up her tears, have them sparkle and dance as they slide down her cheeks.  “ _No,_ not him, _no!”_

 

“I'm so sorry—” Graham tries, but Mary Margaret moves away.

 

“I should have _been_ there!” she screams, “We were always so worried about one of you finding out that.. for fucks sake we split up during a _murder_ so you didn't know that we were in love— and look where that got us!”

 

She's sobbing now, full blown shaking rattles, each sound shakes Regina, slams into that carefully constructed wall she's built around her heart.  Love is awful and tragic, painful.  Poor Mary Margaret.  She doesn’t have to strength to tell her it was all in vain, anyway.  Everyone  at least suspected feelings, if not knew about their full blown affair.

 

She really should comfort Mary Margaret, but her emotions aren't in check, and she's never been good at comforting.  That is Emma’s job.

 

Come to think of it, a lot of things are Emma’s job.  Shouldn’t she be trying to take charge of the situation, boasting about her knowledge of these situation from whatever true crime detective novel she read?  

 

It’s… unlike her to be so timid.

 

Regina looks around for Emma, but before she can give her a pointed glance and demand she comfort her friend, Mal is stepping up to the task.

 

The tall blonde sits on the ground next to Mary Margaret, and arm around her, whispering soft shh-ing noises into her ear.  She's never _seen_ Mal be nurturing before, she's usually telling people to suck it up.  But this seems like a time worthy of comfort if there ever were one, and Mal has apparently decided to let her feel.

 

Regina scans the crowd looking for Robin (not sure  why, or what she plans to say or do when she finds him) but then Graham asks, “Where is Emma?  She asked me if they gave Zelena's death number and I told her that the killer wrote she was victim number 5… and she said she needed a minute… I just figured she was coming up with a new theory and let her go but…”

 

His words startle Regina into action as she sweeps a candle around the darkened hallway, hoping to see her face anywhere.

 

Emm was _right_ here, so close… she saw her, and now she's gone.

 

“I figured she just needed a moment,” Mallory says carefully, an arm still around Mary Margaret, soothing her back, “She's worried about Killian.”

 

“What?” Regina asks, dumbfounded.

 

“They _are_ sleeping together,” Mallory says plainly.  “I figured it was just physical but.. she may care for him.  Love him, even.  She may have taken off looking for him.” She smooths over Mary Margaret's hair and motions to the sobbing mess.  “Perhaps the recent circumstances made her want to take action immediately.”

 

“He… he could be dangerous,” Jefferson warns, “he hasn't been seen since this whole thing started.”

 

Mal rolls her eyes, but doesn't budge from her spot on the floor with Mary Margaret.

 

“We need to find her,” Mal says.  “Regina, you know her the best.  Where would she go?”

 

“ _I_ know her the best?” Regina asks incredulously.  “I barely know her at all.  “I certainly didn't know that she was fucking Killian.”

 

“That's because you don't like Killian,” Mal whispers, “and because you both are emotionally stunted as fuck when it comes to romance.  Think like Emma, since you guys are so alike.  If you were her, where would you go?”

 

If it were Robin that went missing, Regina would have left the group to go searching for him immediately.  She knows that.  She'd think of places _he_ liked, where _he_ felt safe.  

 

But where would Killian feel safe?

 

She thinks of Killian, of the way he was always sneaking off during the workday, how he had these little spots in the building he thought no one knew about.  But she had seen him, a time or two, sneaking back from the fifth floor.  There was something there, he told her, once.  “my little hideout”, he had said.

 

The biggest tenant on the fifth floor was evicted earlier this year, some real estate development firm that went under when the market began to dry up, and there are some open offices for rent around there.  Really, the fifth floor was mostly abandoned… boarded up and locked…

 

But Killian has a way of getting into places he doesn't belong…

 

“Fifth floor,” Regina says, walking towards the stairwell.

 

.::.

 

Everything is eery when the lights are out, but the fifth floor has always been eery.  There's a dental office here, but that's the only active tenant for now.  

 

“I hate the fifth floor,” Graham moans, “why would Emma go _here?”_

 

“Because Killian liked it here,” Regina explains.  “He liked the quiet, I think. Emma would have known that.”

 

Sure enough, the door to the evicted tenant’s office is unlocked.  The door doesn't even seem to be tampered with. There's not much there...but there is a tv that has been left in the office (the tenants couldn't pay, items were left behind to be auctioned off, but apparently the TV was never put up for auction).

 

Then… they are surrounded by smoke.  But there’s no smokey smell... in fact, it’s not really smoke at all.

 

Mary Margaret takes a pause from her sniffling to shriek a terrified _Not again_.

 

“What the _fuck?”_ Jefferson asks, “What is this, what's happening—”

 

“The fog machine,” Regina whispers.  

 

“That was downstairs,” Graham reminds.

 

Regina rolls her eyes.  “I think it's capable of being moved, Graham.  For fucks sake the bodies keep moving.  I think the killer can handle a fog machine.”

 

“Well I don't know!” Graham shouts, “Why would the killer move the fog machine up here?”

 

“To mess with us!” Mallory says in a harsh whisper.  “And to make it easier to kill us, _obviously.”_

 

It doesn't make sense…” Jefferson mutters, as if he's trying to wrap his mind around something, “this… it's too organized, too many moving parts to be just a person doing all this, it must be—”

 

“Will you all shut up?” Robin asks.  “Look, we need to get out of here, I don't care who turned the bloody thing on or how or why, and I'm not about to try to figure it out.  I'm getting out of here.  Who is following me?”

 

“Me!” Jefferson says quickly, “I’m not staying around in… this”

 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says worriedly, “what about Emma?”

 

“She's smart, she will know to stay away from here if it's surrounded in fog,” Jefferson theorizes.  “come on, let's go.”

 

But the fog is coming from the only exit to the office.

 

They have no choice but to walk past it.

 

Robin takes her hand again, and this time Regina lets him wrap himself around her.

 

“You're freezing,” he says as they walk, “do you want my jacket?”

 

For fucks sake.

 

“Robin now is not the time for chivalry,” she whispers back.  

 

“Just let me do _something,”_ he pleads.

 

She leans into his side, her hand covers his own, the one he's put on her shoulder.

 

“You _are_ doing something,” she assures.

 

“AHHH!”

 

It's Graham who screams this time, like a frightened school child.

There's a commotion ahead of them as the fog clears; someone has found out how to turn it off.

 

She hears another terrified scream… perhaps that was Jefferson.

 

She almost doesn’t want to know why, but fate won’t let her avoid knowing. 

 

She's just intended to step over the fog machine when she glances down at the fog machine she sees Emma.

 

Because the fog machine _is_ Emma.

 

Emma's detached head has been put over the machine, her mouth fixed in a silent scream, eyes forever open and terror filled…

 

Fog billows out of that open mouth.  For a second Regina can't figure out how it's happening, but then she sees the giant, gaping hole in the back of her head, the spout of the fog machine shoved into a hollowed out skull.

 

Bile creeps up her throat.  The acid burns and stings, foul taste coating her insides as it rises. she swallows it down in one painful motion.

 

Mary Margaret’s not so lucky.  She hears her vomiting on the floor near her, sobbing and crying as she does and well… she's due this.  Regina can't begrudge anyone for losing their stomach now.  She doesn't say a word when she hears the choked retching of Graham either.

 

“We have to get out of here,” Robin says.  He's assumes the role of Gold now, as the group’s new leader.  And he sounds… focused.  Emotionless.  Perfectly serene under pressure.  She’s not sure how he does it.

 

Emma's death hit her harder than she would have imagined.  She feels numb as she walks out the door, dizzy and...resigned.

 

It turns out she _liked_ Emma, for all her faults and failings, all her ridiculous boasts and absurd infatuations with things that could hurt her...

 

And now she's gone and it's too much.

 

There's a letter written on a yellow memo pad and taped to the outside of the door, scribbled quickly.  She doesn't read it; she knows what it says.

 

But this one is slightly different, apparently.  Jefferson reads it out loud in shaky breath.

 

THIS ONE WAS ALWAYS FULL OF HOT AIR

6 DOWN, 7 TO GO

 

It hits her then again. It’s unavoidable, isn’t it?

The killer knows them.  Intimately so.


	7. Full Moon

Mal is the quick thinker who unplugs the fog machine from its power source.

 

“We should take this with us,” she mutters, grabbing the generator.  “We can use it for something.”

 

“Some of the office lamps,” Regina suggests, blankly.  “We can keep the office lit for awhile. We won't be able to be surprised.”

 

It seems like a good plan.

 

And then they are silently trudging back to that dark stairwell, heading back to the office.  It's at least a place they know.  A place they spend 8 hours a day every weekday.  

 

It's sort of like having home court advantage.

 

When they reach the bottom of the stairs, they hear it.

 

Noises are coming from the fourth floor’s communal kitchen.  Loud footsteps, at first, some banging of drawers.  Then a glass crashes.

 

“Bloody hell!” says someone who is either Killian or doing a hell of an impression.  And he sounds more annoyed than anything else.  And that's, well, disturbing and suspect.

 

Jefferson puts his hand over his lips and motions towards the door.  He draws back his frying pan and stalks towards the entrance to the kitchen as if preparing for battle.  Graham follows close behind him, holding his scissors like a blade.

 

“Oh come on.  Do we _really_ think he's our killer?” Mallory whispers.  “ _Killian?”_

 

“The notes say there are 13 of us they want to kill,” Mary Margaret says dumbly.  “So it's none of us, it's someone who wants to kill _all_ of us.”

 

“Unless the killer is just saying that so we won't suspect one another,” Graham whispers, “Either way, we have to be prepared for what we see behind that door.  Everyone… be careful.”

 

Graham and Jefferson kick down the door dramatically while Robin, and Mal shine the light inside.

 

Two flashlights flashlights focus on an absolutely shocked Killian.  He has a mickey of rum in his hand, and there's a glass on the counter he appears to be pouring it in.

 

“Hello mates,” Killian says cheerfully, ignoring the raised makeshift weapons that Graham and Jefferson are holding in the air, “you scared me.  How's the team building exercises then?  Is Gold pissed I skipped out on it?”

 

“There is no team building you idiot,” Regina seethes.  “Where the fuck have you _been?”_

 

“When the power went out I took the opportunity to get away for a bit.”

 

“I went to visit your little hideout,” Regina says, “it was totally abandoned.”

 

“What hideout?”

 

“The one on the fifth floor,” Regina drawls.  “The one I always see you sneaking off to during work hours.”

 

“Ah,” Killian laughs.  “That's only because of the television.  I was in that attorney — Chuck Bentley's office on the eighth floor.  Did you guys see that man's balcony?  And liquor collection?  I can't take a lot but I skim a bit off the top…”

 

“Yes well while you've been enjoying the stars did you by any chance see Zelena falling out from the roof to her death?” Regina snaps.

 

Killian's eyes go wide.  “What?  Was it an accident or a suicide?”

 

“Bentley’s office is on the other side of the the building,” Jefferson pipes up.  “If he truly was there he wouldn't have seen it.”

 

But Killian seems too genuinely concerned to be insulted with the implication that he may not be telling the truth.  “Did you guys call the police?” Killian asks, “I mean, if she truly died…”

 

“For fucks sake mate,” Robin gripes.  “She was _murdered_.  Or...if she wasn’t, a killer had a significant role in her death.  And the death of many others. There's no cell phone service; someone is blocking reception.  And the exits are all locked and booby trapped.”

 

Killians expression goes contemplative instead of fearful.  And then he lets out a laugh.  “And you guys said there was no team building!”

 

“There _is_ no team building,” Robin sighs, “Killian, there's a mad killer on the loose picking us off one by one.”

 

“I'll bet,” Killian snarks, “and we all have to band together to stop him, huh?  Come on you know Gold loves doing these humiliating things.  He's probably recording us—”

 

“Gold's dead!” Graham shouts, “and so is David, and Belle, and fucking Emma!”

 

Killian frowns at that, at the mention of Emma.  And Regina thinks they are getting through to him until he sighs and says, “I really thought Emma would have let me in on this game beforehand.”

 

“It isn't a game,” Robin says through clenched teeth.  “People are dying gruesome deaths.”

 

“Is that so?  Killian asks, sipping his rum. “Did anyone inspect them, check for heart beats, and the like?”

 

“There was no need,” Jefferson said.  “The deaths were all gruesome enough that no one could have survived.”

 

“It’s hard to check the pulse of a decapitated head,” Mary Margaret says grimly.

 

“I see.  And where are these heads and bodies then?  I'd like to see this for myself.”

 

Regina lets out a slow breath of air.

 

“The killer keeps moving the bodies!” Mary Margaret exclaims, “we don't know how, but—”

 

“Because no one is really dead,” Killian says bluntly.  “This is some crappy team building event.  Gold is an asshole for scaring you all, but what can you do?  I'm not participating in this little murder mystery, myself.  Now since we can't leave, if anyone wants to join me for a drink anywhere in the building… He holds his hands up, displaying a large set of keys.  “I have the keys to most of the offices on the building.  The security guards like me… perhaps a bit too much, but that's besides the point.  They've given me free reign of the place.”

 

“Which guard?” Robin asks, “Edward?”

 

“Nah, the other one gave me this set,” he says, spinning his keys around.  “Adam or something.”

 

“I can see why they like you so much.  You certainly care about them,” Mallory groans.  

 

Killian shrugs.  “I'm charming.”

 

“Well they both hate me,” Robin mutters.  “Adam has actually tried to lock me out of the office twice.”

 

“Yeah Adam heard you laughing at his screenplay idea,” Killian laughs, “the soap opera script with the love triangle he was going on about?  He wasn't thrilled about that.”

 

“Christ that was shit,” Mallory whispers.

 

Taking a moment to laugh at the security guard is.. the perfect break from the talk of death and murder.

 

“Lets all go back to the office and get a light hooked up to this generator,” Graham says at last.  “We will wait things out til morning there.”

 

Killian brings the rum, grumbling about how gullible everyone is, but not fighting the crowd.

 

.::.

 

The generator helps.  Floor lamps light the office, and fuck, Regina almost feels _safe_ again.

 

Killian is still in denial, spouting off about everything being fake, but well, that's to be expected.

 

“Look this doesn't _sound_ funny at all,” Killian says, pointing to Mary Margaret, who is still sniffling over David.  “In fact it's downright cruel.  Gold, if you are out there, we give up!  We are horrible employees!  We will listen to your strategies for success!  Just come out and end this.”

 

Everything is silent for a bit, as even Regina wonders (hopes) this is all an elaborate bad prank. Maybe Emma’s head was just an elaborate prop made of silicone, maybe it just looked real because the lighting was poor, maybe everyone had been faking their death… maybe…

 

She thinks of Rumple's death, of his guts splattered out, that bone jabbed through his heart.  No.  it couldn't be done.  They were really dead.

 

“It's not a stunt,” Jefferson says, his voice almost tired.  “This is real.  There are lots of things I can't explain, but not everything is… explainable.”

 

“I know how to get Gold to give it up,” Killian says, rounding the corner, heading towards their boss’s office. He's out of eyesight now, but not out of earshot.  “I'm going to go trash his office.  You hear that, Gold?  I'm going to rip apart all your important papers, smash all your decorative teacups…”

 

“Killian—” Mallory starts.

 

“Oh let him go,” Mary Margaret mutters, “if I could believe this was all a prank I'd be much happier.”

 

They hear him throwing his temper tantrum, hear the shattering of delicate decorative items, tearing of paper, the bangs of louder objects he's thrown on the floor.  He shouts for them to join him, but no one is in the mood to leave the safety of the office.

 

And then the noises just… stop.

 

"Sounds like he found Gold's whiskey stash," Graham jokes.  

 

"Man you know about that?  I thought I was the only one!" Jefferson exclaims.

 

" _Everyone_ knew, everyone but Killian, that is.  Regina and I have watered down the bourbon twice." Malloy says, wiggling her brows.

 

Regina giggles and shakes her head.  "true, we have. Not sure if Gold noticed."

 

Robin is sitting next to her.  His hand finds its way to her back, and he starts rubbing these little soothing patterns over it.  It's a lot, for public.  And normally she'd be shaking him off, but well, circumstances are what they are, and she can't be bothered to protest.  No one else says a thing about the less-than-platonic touching, and she's grateful for that.

 

They may still be trapped in a horror movie, but for now the lights are on, no killer is in sight, and nearly all her coworkers are around her and safe.  

 

It's too easy to ignore the threats of the moment and talk about something average for a bit.

 

But ten minutes later, they still haven’t heard from Killian.

 

Graham finally caves.  “Killian?” he asks.  “Come on man, you win.  You scared us.  Come back.”

 

Time goes by.  He doesn't answer.

 

“We really need to check on him,” Robin sighs.  “Together, as a group?  He’s right down the corner.”

 

They begrudgingly agree and make their way to Gold’s office.

 

When it comes in sight, Regina cannot help but let out a frustrated groan.

 

There, pressed up against the glass panel that frames Golds door is Killian’s bare ass.

 

It appears he wanted to lighten the mood with a prank of his own.  So he's mooning them.

 

“Very funny, asshole,” Graham mutters, walking briskly into the office door.  “People are scared, you can—. Oh, fuck!  Son of a bitch!”

 

She's not sure why she bothers to follow Graham into the office.

 

But she does.

 

Killian’s body may be busy mooning them, propped up perfectly over a chair, but his head is sitting on the desk, leaking blood onto expense reports.  His mouth is stuffed with some cloth, something that must have kept him from screaming and alerting them that he was really in danger.

 

Shit.  Shitshitshitshit.

 

There's a note taped to the back of Killian’s head.

 

ENJOY THE LAST MOON YOU WILL EVER SEE.

 

7 DOWN, 6 TO GO

 

Predictable screams and sobs follow, and god, if they survive this, Mary Margaret might not survive the PTSD this has inevitably caused her.

 

“Do you think… he's still in the office somewhere?” Mallory asks.

 

As if to answer her question, the lights go out yet again.

 

They never should have left that generator alone, even for a second.

 

Shit.


	8. Ghost

Mary Margaret has taken to praying.

 

If David is dead, after all, he is in heaven.  That's the thought that keeps Mary Margaret moving.  That, and the movie _Ghost_.

 

She doesn't really believe in monsters or ghouls or vampires… but she believes in love, and she believes in it _hard._ She believes love can transcend death.

 

And David, his heart and ability to love is stronger than most.  

 

It may take him a few minutes to adjust to the afterlife, but she truly believes David will make his way back to her, to warn her, to protect her, like a good ghost lover would.

 

She won't say any of this out loud of course.  People will think she's crazy.  They will think seeing the bodies of her coworkers has driven her over the edge, taken her sanity.

 

But it hasn't.  

 

She's perfectly sane.

 

She just knows David wouldn't let death stop true love.

 

Ever since she figured this out (about ten minutes after seeing Killian’s decapitated head), she's been… less fearful.  And more dependent on signs and clues from the spirit of her dearly departed.

 

“We need to stick together,” Jefferson says, “no more splitting up.”

 

“And no more running _towards_ loud noises,” Graham pleads, “we need to run _away_ from them.  This guy clearly means business, he's bested most of us. We can't—”

 

“Who's to say it's a guy?” Mal snips, ready for a fight.

 

“Oh for fucks sake not another feminism lecture, fine, ladies can do whatever they set their minds to including murder all of us, are you happy?”

 

“Happy?  No I'm not happy.  I may be spending my final hours of life with _you._ ” Mal quips.

 

“What if it's not a man or woman at all?” Jefferson asks, “Look, I know we want to think of a reasonably explanation here, but disappearing bodies, random gruesome deaths staged in minutes, power jumping on and off, cell phones dead...when do we start accepting that it's a possibility—”

 

“Have you lost your mind, Jefferson?” Mallory asks, “Are you saying there's a demon in the building?”

 

“I'm saying it's more likely than one person running around the building killing us without any of us even seeing him!” Jefferson quips.”We are being bested, destroyed bit by bit. Bodies are disappearing as if by magic! This is something not of this world.”

 

“Think of this rationally, Jefferson,” Graham pleads, “there’s a scientific explanation for all of this, we just can’t see it yet.”

 

“You sound like that idiot ” Jefferson spits back.  “That tech guy who used to brag about graduating medical school, always lecturing us on how every system error had a logical explanation.  Well this isn’t a system failure, this is _murder!"_

 

 _Negative energy_ says the voice in Mary Margaret’s head.   _Get away from the negative energy._

 

“Yes, David,” Mary Margaret murmurs to herself, so quiet no one can hear her.

 

 _It will be safe in my office_ .  The voice on her head speaks.   _Where we had our first kiss, do you remember?_

 

“I remember, David.”

 

David is protecting her.  No one even notices she's leaving, they are too distracted with arguing amongst themselves over petty nonsense.

 

_Just lie down on the office floor.  Always wanted to take you on the office floor, you know.  Lie there, and I'll lie next you.”_

 

She does, closing her eyes and snuggling into the carpet, where David walked so often…

 

His office smells like him, musky and masculine.

 

This is perfect.  

 

“Thank you, David,” she murmurs.

 

She just wants to rest her eyes for a moment…

 

It seems she's barely shut her eyes before it happens.  Something or someone picks her up and handles her almost daintily.  She feels something being looped around her neck, but she does not struggle.  And as the rope tightens around her neck, she finds it fitting that _David_ was the last word she will utter.

 

 _I'm coming to see you, David_ Mary Margaret thinks before the need for air becomes too overwhelming to think of anything else.

 

.::.

 

They are sitting in the floor, leaning against the wall, listening to Jefferson, Graham and Mal argue.

 

It’s devolved into name calling now, with Mal dropping the bomb that the pretty blonde consultant — Carmella whatever her name is — had found Jefferson to be rather shit in bed.

It’s an amusing conversation but...not really how she wants to spend her final hours.   

 

“Anything I can do?” Robin whispers to her.

 

She chuckles bitterly, grabbing his hand.  “Catch the killer?  Get us out of here alive?”

 

He gives out a breathy whisper of a laugh and says, “I will truly try my best.”

 

She turns to look at him, in his ridiculous mobster costume and sighs.  “That costume is... terrible.  If we were to die today the least you could do is wear a roman warrior outfit… or something that would at least be fun to look at.”

 

Robin cracks a wide smile.  “I'm sorry I don't present as better eyecandy for you in your time if need.”

 

“Yes well.  You aren't forgiven.” Regina says back dryly, trying to hide her smile.  And then, before she loses her nerve, “I really enjoyed that night.  I know what I told you, but…”

 

“I really enjoyed it too,” he assures.  “As I said.  In fact, nothing I told you that night was untrue.”

 

“I only lied about my job and phone number,” she breathes, her cheeks flushing with heat.  “All of it was true.”

 

“Even the orgasms?” Robin asks, after all, “four is a lot.”

 

She snickers and sighs. “Alright, don't waste our final hours being all cocky.” There's a pause, and then she decides fuck it, why not?  “Your forgetting the morning after.  Five.”

 

“Oh I don't think I'd ever forget that.  But you're right, I did miscount, didn't I?”

 

“You counted just fine.  You just wanted me to correct your math.”

 

“Guilty as charged,” he admits.

 

They get so wrapped up in one another, as Robin gets bold and rubs up her leg, Regina lets out a little sigh and doesn't protest, god, even shifts so he can more easily reach her inner thigh.  He’s headed up, soft strokes, so close…

 

Maybe they could just… for a few minutes? Just throw down in a spare office somewhere and let him give her a quick orgasm to burn off the anxiety before she's sent off to hell.  Is that too much to ask for?

 

Probably.  And it would most likely result in getting them killed.

 

But they are partially hidden from the rest of the group, a three story shelf and an office plant giving them a bit of coverage, and everyone else is distracted by yelling about god knows what right now, so he can touch her just a bit in the dark, just enough to tease her, to make her feel _good_ instead of feeling terrified and helpless. 

 

It's Graham breaks them out of the moment, pausing from his arguments with Mal and Jefferson to mention that Mary Margaret isn't where he last saw her, leaning against that desk, sitting on the floor near him.

 

And then they are off in search of her.

 

It doesn't take much searching.

 

In David’s office, Mary Margaret is suspended in mid air, her angel costume altered, excess fabric covering her face like a makeshift executioner's mask, two little holes cut for the eyes.

 

The wall behind her is graffitied with a message.

 

DO ADULTERERS GO TO HEAVEN?

 

A TRUE FALLEN ANGEL

 

8 DOWN, 5 TO GO.


	9. Haunted

“We are all sticking together,” Robin insists.  “There’s only five of us left.  We’re just going to sit together, in a group, backs to one another, and waiting this out until morning.”

 

“So the plan is, if I understand,” Graham says, his voice dripping with annoyance, “we just sit here and wait to be attacked?”

 

“Everyone has been picked off when they strayed from the group,” Regina reminds.  “Robin is right.  We should stay together.”

 

“Of course _you_ agree with him,” Jefferson scoffs.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Regina feels her cheeks heat, in anger or embarrassment, she does not know.

 

“Oh what do you think?” Graham sighs, “Come on, we all know you two sweat over one another.  If you haven’t fucked yet that poor man’s balls must be purple—”

 

“Okay that’s quite enough,” Mal interjects.  “Office gossip aside, Robin has a point.  Plus in every bad horror movie, the idiots who leave the crowd get picked off, and this night has been nothing if not a bad horror movie.  So let’s be novel for a change and stay put, huh?”

 

And that’s what they do.

 

For a little while.

 

Time passes. They silently lean against one another, but they get restless.  Nothing has happened for over an hour.

 

Their killer, it seems, has also gotten restless, and it’s taken everything in their being to not take the bait and run towards the sounds of squeaking and creaking in the dark.  

 

More time starts.  And then sounds start coming from the walls that doesn’t quite sound human.

 

It takes her awhile to realize that it’s comin from the walls— over the walls.

 

It’s the intercom.  And it sounds like a creepy halloween score, with creepy noises of wind and branches scratching against window panes, muffled voices that say something in a language that is definitely not English, the subtle whispered _whoooos_ that you’d expect to hear out of a cartoon ghost.

 

“Maybe we should investigate,” Graham mutters, after a few minutes.

 

“No splitting off from the group,” Robin insists. “Everyone's sticking together.  It's 2AM, daylight is in four hours.  We can do this.  If we stick together, we can fight off whoever comes at us.”

 

“No we can't,” Jefferson resigns.  “Whatever is killing us off isn't a person.  I said this before.  It's killing victims, disappearing bodies moments after we leave them… really, Robin, do you honestly believe one person is able to do this—”

 

“It is probably more than one killer.  Maybe a team,” Robin concedes, “But they haven't been attacking us as a team yet.  So the best thing we can do is stay together and wait this out.”

 

Jefferson sighs.  “I still think that means we will just all die together, when they come for us.”

 

“Who do you think is coming for us?” Regina asks, quietly.

 

Jefferson takes a deep breath.  “Did you guys ever study the history of this town?”

 

“Um,” Regina thinks, trying to gently broach the subject of hysteria and how it might be setting into Jefferson.  “I studied a bit, why?”

 

“The Shawnee tribe and pilgrims fought the battle of Big Neck here.   _Right_ here.  The bones of hundreds of slaughtered Indians are beneath this building.”

 

For fucks sake.

 

“Jefferson,” Robin says carefully, “You're not truly saying—”

 

“That the ghosts of Native Americans have come back to claim what is there's on All Hallows' Eve?  Yes, I am saying that.  Look at the evidence.  Listen to them,” he nods at the ceiling, and the muffled spooky voices over the intercom.  “Disappearing bodies, the fact they want to get rid of _all_ of us, how they seem to appear out of nowhere— how did they get Mary Margaret with none of us seeing him?  And now he's using the intercom - how did he get there?  Oh and the power is out, how can the intercom even be working?”

 

“Portable generator,” Robin muses, “and as for the rest, I think we've established there may be more than one killer.”

 

“Someone who knows us,” Jefferson reminds.  “Knows about Mary Margaret and her affair.  Knows about the jokes we make about Emma blowing hot air.  Someone who has been watching us…”

 

“Oh for fucking hell Jefferson, it's not only ghosts that are capable of observing.  We all knew Mary Margaret and David wanted each other.  And … it's hardly something that takes detective work to uncover that Emma's full of shit sometimes.”

 

“Full of _hot air_ ,” he corrects.  "We always used to say that about her.  And frankly, she wasn't much acting like that tonight, was she?  She was uncharacteristically quiet."

 

"She was worried about Killian, so she was a bit off." Mal notes.

 

"Exactly.  This someone who has listened to us enough to know the jokes we make about Emma!"

 

“If someone has been watching us that carefully they also know you are prone to believing in ghost stories,” Regina notes, “they are messing with you, with us, because they know our plan of sticking together is spoiling their plan of killing us one by one.  So let's keep doing what we are doing until daylight.”

 

I think _together_ we should try to contact the spirits that are haunting us and apologize,” Jefferson states, “look, I get it, I sound crazy…”

 

“You sound like _Zelena,_ ” Graham says simply, “Zelena, the only one who accidentally killed herself before the killer got to her.”

 

“I’m not being her.  I’m being… look there is a history of unexplained events around indian burial grounds,” he says excitedly, “there’s an atypical amount of homicides on ground where indians have been massacred, you can’t debate that—”

 

“Can’t we?” Mal drawls, “where’s your proof?”

 

“If we could get online I’d show you the numbers!” he says “Wikipedia.  Paranormal Facts dot com.  Statistics don’t lie.”

 

“No, people do,” Graham responds bitterly, “Jefferson, I get it, we’ve all been something...horrible.  But we have to keep it together.  We have to wait this out.”

 

“We need to contact the dead,” he insists, standing up briskly.  “I have a device, I hid it—”

 

“Jefferson, get back here,” Robin directs, “don’t lose your cool, man, stay…”

 

“I’ve been worried about this for awhile,” Jefferson mutters, “I have a ouija board.  I hid it, but sometimes, when I’m working late, I hear noises.  I brought in the board, and it’s helped.  There’s a spirit, his name is Migisi—”

 

“For fucks sake, man up!” Graham grumbles, “There’s no damn Migisi.”

 

“There _is!”_ Jefferson insists.  “I’ll show you!”

 

He walks towards the storage closet with purpose, Opening the door in a mad rage, and then…

 

THWACK!

 

Graham’s flashlight acts as a spotlight for the whole sickening thing.  The moment the door opens, something springs, and an axe crashes from it’s place above, plummeting through Jefferson’s skull.

 

The door was booby trapped.

 

Waiting, it seems, for him to open the door.

 

“Shit!” Robin cries “He could still be alive, he could…  someone help!

 

Regina flies to his side, to the corpse, because it’s just a corpse now.  The gash in his skull is so deep, it’s stuck, it’s…

 

There’s no pulse.  He’s gone.  

 

She looks for Graham, for his assistance, but he’s freaking out, on the other side of the door, cringing and muttering something about looking for more traps.  But she can tell, Graham is sick to his stomach.  

 

An axe to the head is not the prettiest sight, after all.

 

“Robin,” she tries, holding her hand on his limp arm, shaking her head.  

 

Mallory is by their side, witness to Robin doing something she wouldn't have the strength to.

 

But they need the weapon, after all.  

 

So that’s why Robin is bent over Jefferson’s body, pulling to free that axe out of their coworker’s skull.

 

She’s unable to look away from the horror, and so is Mal.

 

And that’s how neither of them see the figure behind them, grabbing Graham, covering his mouth with chloroform cloth, dragging him off in the darkness.

 

When the axe is finally freed, they are yet another man down, with only a handwritten memo page left behind.

 

9 DOWN, 4 TO GO

 

“Graham?” Mal calls out, timidly, and then a more forceful, “GRAHAM?”

 

Flashlights dance around the office, frantically in search of their missing friend.  

 

They find a separate note, thumbtacked to the far wall.

 

HE’LL BE BACK  
(DON’T YOU WORRY)

 

“He’s somewhere close,” Robin warns, “But we’re not playing this game anymore.  We’re going to sit right here and we’re going to wait.”

 

He looks down at the bloodied axe in his hand, bits of brain matter stuck to the blade and adds, “at least we have a proper weapon, now.”


	10. Legend

In high school, Graham was a legend.

 

His father moved him to the States when he was 15.  He was a natural athlete, jumped right into American football (Ridiculous name, that. Ridiculous sport, too,  but the ladies seem to love it, so who was he to deny them his body in a football uniform?).

 

He was popular.  People mistook his accent for intelligence, and they consulted him on nearly everything.

 

Graham was important.  

 

He mattered.

 

He always heard stories of people peaking too soon, of their best years being high school, but he never quite thought it would happen to him.

 

Hell, his halloween costume is literally his high school letterman jacket.  He now has a low level job at a chemical company instead of being an actor or sports model like he always assume he would be.  

 

He peaked too soon.

 

This is what swirls through his mind as he comes to, waves of consciousness.

 

He doesn’t know this room….not sure where he is.  It’s dark outside.  The floors and walls are cement, not a window to be seen.  It smells musty, like a basement, perhaps.  His arms are bound, but his legs are not, and he’s free to walk around in the pitch blackness.

 

High school Graham would have a way out of this room.

 

But Present Graham has no idea what to do.

 

In high school, what would he do?  He’d use his charm, and his strength, his agility….

 

Charm first.  

 

“Hello?” he asks, calling out to the darkness.  “Whoever you are, whatever you want, I will help you!”

 

He's been spared, after all.  The rest were killed right away but he's been kept prisoner.  

 

By god, his mother was right all along.

 

There's something quite special about him.

 

“Thank you for not killing me,” Graham says, as he walks around the solid walls of his little prison.  “I can’t help but think you… want something from me. Something the others...couldn’t provide?”

 

“Indeed,” an all too familiar voice hisses from behind.  He tries to turn around, tries to defend himself, but his arms are tied, and he’s still weak from whatever he was drugged with before.  And that rag goes back near his mouth, not enough to make him lose consciousness, but enough to where he’s seeing stars and can barely fight.

 

He can’t believe…. He never would have suspected the killer to be…

 

“We can’t all escape our pasts, Graham,” the voice says, ever more confident.   Someone strong is grabbing him from behind, reaching inside his jeans and grabbing at underwear.

 

Oh god, of course he’s been spared.  His good looks have got him into trouble again.  His dignity is about to be taken, and this isn’t fair, not at all —

 

But instead of yanking his briefs down, the killer is yanking them up….up…

 

Pain sears through his lower parts as the wedgie does exactly what its name suggests his parts wedging tightly in places he’d rather them not.  

 

“Uncle!” He cries out, because well, it’s worth a shot, right?  That’s what they like to say in the states when you’ve had enough, isn’t it?

 

But the killer does not play by the rules of uncle.  And somehow that underwear is rising to a criminal level...can it actually go over his head?  He’s trying to fight, but his body just...won’t work.  He is paralyzed.  

 

He hears the fabric ripping, cannot believe when he feels it slide from the _top of his head_ down his face, catching on his neck.  The fabric digs in so hard, something snaps inside his throat, and he can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can’t cry out.

 

He thought it was just an urban legend; that an atomic wedgie can kill.

 

It’s not, it seems, because he’s dying now.  

 

The last thought that warms his heart is at least people will be speaking of him and his tragic, unusual death for decades to come.  

 

Graham is a legend.

 

.::.

 

It’s a shame they can’t see this masterpiece, because what has been done to Graham was truly spectacular.  And so fitting.  

 

But well, they are so intent on sticking together, those little assholes.

 

So displaying the body for them to shriek and cry over will be difficult.  Especially figuring out a way to do so before the next planned murder.  

 

It’s such a shame.  Perhaps he can be put on display somewhere, before the last one is killed.

 

Who will be the last one?  You’d think it would have been Gold.  The man certainly seems like a survivor, doesn’t he?

 

Maybe it will be Regina.  She has a certain air of resilience that is….admirable, if nothing else.

 

But now is not time to think of what is to come.  Now is time to get stuff done.

 

The intercom will have to do for this death announcement.

 

The three remaining victims need to know Graham is gone.

 

The words are clear, loud and crisp over the intercom,

 

_10 DOWN, 3 TO GO_


	11. Chapter 11

It’s down to just them, now.  Mal, Robin, and Regina.

 

There’s a bonus to this group: none of them are crazy.

 

None of them are likely to spout off about ghosts or curses or hauntings.  No one will run off doing something stupid.  

 

They are going to work well together.

 

Robin keeps an arm around Regina, and she sighs into his shoulder.  God she's so tired, she could just curl up to sleep like this, if only for a few moments…

 

“Oh for fucks sake, stop it, I’ll be damned if I'm going to be a third wheel for my final moments of life,” gripes Mal.  

 

“What?” Regina asks plainly, but Mal is hearing nothing of it.

 

“For the love of god, stop acting innocent.  You two are in love with one another, it's exceedingly obvious,” Mal sighs, “but can you lovebirds put a hold on it until we either die or make it out safe?  I promise you can make over each other all you want in the afterlife, or—”

 

“We aren't in love,” Regina says blankly.  She can take the jokes about...desiring him.  Hell, there’s hardly a woman who wouldn’t.  But love?  No, that’s not what this is.  Sure they’ve knowne each other for a year, shared an intimate night together followed by so many mornings of coffee and days of working on the same stretch of carpet followed by the awkward happy hours where she tried to avoid him for fear he’d see how much she truly cared for him… but no, that’s not love.  

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Mal moans, “Just fucking have the courage to say it.  I'm so tired of living in this cheesy horror film, completely with the cliche romance.”

 

“I'm… we’re not…” Regina struggles to find words to communicate that they aren't in love while realizing that she full well _may_ be in love, and it's… confusing.

 

“Ok sorry, Mal.” Robin says sincerely.  “I'll try to put my pining for her on pause.”

 

Regina freezes stares at him as if she's honestly shocked.  But he just shrugs and soothes a hand up her leg.  “What?  Don't you know by now how I feel about you?”

 

She swallows heavy, but says nothing.

 

Luckily Mal breaks the silence.

 

“So onto more pressing matters. The plan is just to stay here, then?” Mal whispers.

 

“Three and a half hours til daylight,” Robin whispers back, “it’s a good idea, as good as any at least.  And we’re armed now, we can put up a hell of a fight against anyone who comes our way.”

 

“Whoever this person is managed to take _Graham_.  Took him like it was nothing when we were standing right there.  Do you really think if they come for us we’ll stand a shot?” Mal asks.  “There are only three of us now.  And all of these murders, everything they’ve done... It’s like they’ve been a step ahead of us.  Knew exactly what we would do…”

 

Robin’s eyes go wide.  He reaches to the desk closest to them, fumbling around with random drawers until he procures a memo pad and a pen.

 

And then he starts to write in the dark.

 

_Mal is right.  Staying here waiting to be picked off may not be the best plan. I think the killers are listening to us, so let's be quiet.  Cover this message as you read, in case they are somehow watching us with infrared cameras.  I nicked Killian’s keys to the building — I figured we may need them. We can go down to the first or floor offices and try to open one of them.  Then we can take out a window with this axe._

 

It's a good plan.  Regina reads it first, then gives it to Mal.

 

She nods.

 

Robin writes carefully again

 

_We all run when I raise my hand.  Okay?_

 

More nodding.  

 

Regina’s heart is in her chest, and she’s aware of the fact she’s holding her breath, too afraid to even exhale.  

 

She can _hear_ every last sound, the crackling of the intercom, the brushing of trees against the window pane, the scuffing of shoes against the cheap carpet as Mal prepares to get on her feet.

 

Robin exchanges a knowing glance with each of them.

 

Regina digs her feet into the ground, her hands pressed against the carpet at either side, ready to jump to her feet.

 

And then Robin raises his hand, and she springs up, leapfrogging to her feet and running.

 

They are all quick — she’s not the only one.  Mal is graceful but forceful as she gallops towards the door, Robin is up first, getting the door for them, racing down the stairs, flying blind and fast.

  


There’s a steady rhythm to their hurried footsteps, pounding on the stairs that echoes the pounding in her chest.

 

Every corner they turn is another potential end of their life.

 

And there are so many blind corners to turn as they run four flights down.  At this point there’s nothing but fear and hope at every corner, hoping that there won’t be someone with a knife waiting to cut her throat.

 

And they luck out, because they reach the end of the stairs without a monster in sight.

 

Robin exits the stairwell first, Regina and Mal on his heels.  THey let him guide them to the entrance to the door to the right of the stairwell.

 

She is still holding her breath.

 

Robin fumbles to open the door, first sticking the key in the wrong way, and Regina feels a prickle on her spine as she waits for the killers to pop out.

 

Any second now.

 

But there’s nothing.  There’s no one.  

 

Every blood curdling moment builds and amount to nowhere; the door to the office opens, they walk in.  Robin closes it and locks it.  And then she lets out that breath she had been holding in for minutes and nearly collapses against the door.

Oh irony of ironies. They are in a psychologist’s office. It is calm paintings and plush seating, everything designed to be comfortable and soothing.  What an odd setting to be in, under the circumstances.

 

“You guys keep watch,” Robin orders.  “If someone comes you tell me.  And you get _behind_ me.  I will draw him out but I need you two to run to safety, do you understand?”

 

Mal hums affirmatively, watching the door.

 

She knows what he’s telling her to do.  He’s taking the risks, and he’s doing so for them.  For her.  

 

Because he likes her, quite a bit.

 

And she’s not sure what is going on with them, but it is _something,_ and he should know it goes both ways, at least in case he dies.

 

She lets Mal watch the door while she follows Robin towards the large, windowed wall by the far end and whispers, “I feel the same way about you, you know.”

 

The darkness cannot hide the brightness of his smile.  It’s absolutely ridiculous he could even pause from the panic of the moment, but he does.  He grasps for her chin, tilts his face towards hers.

 

It’s dark, so their kiss is sloppy, lips not exactly aligning with one another's.  It’s fast, and tongue filled, passionate, and full of promise.

 

“I love you,” he says quickly.  And shit, no, that’s not what she meant, she doesn’t _love_ him, that’s far too soon, she just...she cares for him.  A lot.  She hesitates, even opens her mouth, ready to say something in protest, but he dives in and kisses her again, adding, “You can yell at me all you want for saying that when we are alive, and safe, and out of here.  So go keep watch and think about all the things you want to say.”

 

She should say it back.

 

What’s the harm?   She just needs to say it  It would feel so good to say it to _someone_.  

 

She should say anything at all, but he’s already taken the axe out, is already lunging and winding his arm up, readying himself and….

 

It hits the glass with a _THWACK!_

 

She had expected it to shatter, for the entire pane to fall down.

 

But things can’t be so easy, can they?

 

The property manager was ever so careful to get bulletproof, stormproof, double panes safety windows on the first floor.  Just their fucking luck.

 

The axe is making a dent though, glass spraying around him as he chops away..

 

“Stand back!” he directs, “stay together, please.”

 

She doesn’t argue with him, she just gets back with Mal and watches the door, listening to the steady clanking of steel against glass behind them.  That sharp, metallic clash followed by the crunch of crumbling glass.

 

And then she hears him take a breath (that’s good, he’s alive) let it out with a grunt as he winds his arm again and takes another hit at the glass.  

 

Another gasping breath in, a grunt, the bang of the axe against the glass, the snapping of the shatter resistant glass bending and breaking underneath the axe’s forced, the light tinkle of fallen shards onto the floor.

 

It’s almost like a song, the steady gasp, ugh!, bang!, crunch!, tingtingting! That repeats in a steady pace.

 

She’s supposed to be watching the door, but she can’t help but turn around, to look and see if Robin is making progress.

 

It’s dark, but his flashlight is shining at the glass pane.  There's a hole there now, a safe spark of freedom glimmers, and he continues slamming that axe into it, shards of glass flying with every hit.

 

Chipping away, slowly but surely.

 

The glass cracks and snaps underneath the axes.

 

This is going to work, Regina realizes, it is going to work….

 

Her flashlight is still on the door, watching, ready to alert him at the slightest sign of movement.

 

She keeps looking back at him though, just to make sure he’s doing okay.  

 

And that’s how she catches something coming in from the side.  She's not sure _how_ it got there or _where_ it came from, but she hears the faint stomp, and then sees the figure on the ground, walking towards her, as if it fell from the sky.

 

“ _ROBIN!!!”_ She screams, just as he sinks his axe in the glass again, “Robin, to your left, it's coming!”

 

It...It's big, and hairy, and moving far too fast.  By the time she sees it she's worried Robin won't be able to direct his axe in time.

 

But he does, he draws it ready, waiting for the attacking beast.

 

But it's not a beast after all.  It's… only a costume.

 

Because monsters don't have guns.  And _this_ monster is carrying one.

 

“RUN!” Robin shouts at Regina, “Get out of here!”

 

Mal is pulling Regina towards the office exit, but she can't.  She can’t leave him.

 

“Robin please!  Come here!”

 

And then there’s a large _CRACK_ and the light of gunpowder exploding as a bullet whizzes in the air.

 

She hears the _Ooomf!_ From Robin before she can even process.  He’s clutching his chest, and she shines that flashlight just as Mal pulls her away and turns off the light..  

 

She sees it before everything goes dark, the blood seeping from his chest, out between his fingers, and god, no, god please no.  

 

Not Robin, no, nonono not him.

 

She wants to scream, but she can't.  It's pitch black and Mal is pulling her up the stairs now, telling her she has a place they can keep safe, if she just stays quiet.

 

“11 DOWN, 2 TO GO!” Cackles the bellowing voice of something that doesn't quite sound human.  

 

She hears the footsteps of their killer and by god, he doesn't head towards the stairwell. He is going a different way, he must have thought they would go for the other exits, possibly (perhaps they should have) But Mal is urging her up the stairs, whispering soothing words as they climb to the sixth floor.  Neither of them wore heels, their feet are silent against the linoleum, thank god they tricked him.

 

Maybe they have a chance.

 

But after watching everyone else die, Regina finds her life doesn't matter to her the way it used to.

* * *

A/N: Ooops.


	12. Chapter 12

“I know another hideout in this maze of a building,” Mal whispers to her.  They make it to the third floor.  Mal takes a deep breath and opens the stairwell door, relieved to find nothing ok the other side of it.  And then Mal is using Killian’s keys to let herself into the massage therapist office, locking it behind her.

 

She shoves Regina into what appears to be a supply closet.  

 

Regina’s mind is still reeling.  She sits in the floor, arms around her knees and lets the tears flow.  “I loved him.  I loved him so much....”

 

“I know,” Mal assures, much too understanding given the circumstances. “And he did too.  I promise we can talk about it all you want when we get out of here, okay?” She’s red-eyed too, this hasn’t been easy on her.  They need to both be stronger, it’s best for both of them.

 

So Regina tries, tries to steel herself for as long as she can, to prolong the breakdown she knows is coming.

 

There's lotions and oils around her, dirty and clean towels and uniforms, and bless, bottles of water.  Regina takes one offers it to Mal, opening another for herself and drinking greedily.

 

And then she notices this closet also has a window.

 

But Mal already knew that, it seems.  

 

Mal grabs a paper towel and begins to scribble on it with a pen.

 

 _We have to be quiet.  Robin may have been right, the whole building may be bugged.  If I can get this window open, we can get out.  There's a tree branch right outside this window we can get to.  If not, maybe no one will find us in time and we'll survive in here.  The first staff comes in this office first thing saturday morning.  They will be in at 6:45 AM_.

 

 _How do you know this?_ Regina writes back.

 

Mal shrugs and writes.   _I dated one of the masseuses._

 

And then, _Whoever is after us w_ _on't look for us here anytime soon, and fucked up and kept the lights off.  I think we lost that monster.  We just need to be quiet and get this little window open._

 

Regina nods.

 

And Mal goes to open the little window.  It’s… they can both get out.  it’s a tight fit, but it works.

 

Mal jerks the window hard now, gritting teeth in frustration as it doesn’t budge.

 

Oh fuck.

 

Regina tries to help her, and they use the flashlight for some sign of a lock, of anything…

 

She looks around the edges of the window… and it’s Mal who notices, tracing the window seam with a shaky finger.

 

The window is painted shut.

 

Probably painted shut on the exterior too.

 

And they don’t have a crowbar or even a knife to free the wind.

 

They don’t have anything but a flashlight and their hands.

 

And lotion and towels, but they won’t be of much help, will they?

 

Shit, shit shit.

 

They try to be quiet, they really do, but with every attempt to free the window, they get louder, more frustrated, less in control.  

 

Regina knows this is bad, this sound is bad.  If they are bugged the sound has certainly travelled.

 

So they need to be quiet but they _really_ need to get out.

 

Regina let’s out a deep grunt as she tries desperately to open the window.

 

They are so close.  So fucking close…

 

The try again together, stomping down feet as they plant them hard against the floor, putting every ounce of force into the window.

 

She groans and grunts because she knows this will be it.  They are going to open it.  It is going to work....  it is, hey are almost there, she and Mal, almost free...

 

Her foot slides back and she bumps into the supply shelf shins her.  And then she hears the smack of several bottles of lotion falling off and to the floor.

 

Shit. The killer  heard that.  There's no way that went unnoticed.

 

Mal stops, taking a deep breath.

 

“Fuck it,” Mal whispers, though there's little sense in whispering at this point.  They are loud, and if their clamoring has gone unnoticed, speaking at a regular volume surely won't be.

 

She wraps her hand in a towel, tightly.

 

“I'm smashing the window,” Mal explains, as if it were nothing.  And at this point, what choice do they have?  Regina wants out of this prison so badly, she’d throw herself through a pane of glass if it meant a reasonable chance of getting out of here.

 

“Watch the door, if you hear anything, let me know and we’ll barricade the door with everything we can.”

 

Ok.  Good idea.  Mal has good ideas.

 

Thank god she has Mal, because she might be screaming and smashing her head against the window by now without her.

 

But Mal knows what to do, thank god.

 

In an effort to do right by Mal, Regina presses her ear closely to the door, as directed.   

 

 _SMASH_!

 

Mal hits the window hard, and it cracks, my god, does it ever.  

 

It's not the bulletproof, security glass of the first floor.  It breaks.  Not easily, but it does, after a few punches it splinters and crack shards drop to the floor like fallen wind chimes , the outside air rushes in, and it tastes like freedom and hope… and maybe rebirth.  

 

But they are being loud, so loud, the killer definitely heard that.

 

They have to be quick, god, she has to check to make sure she doesn’t hear anything...

 

There’s not a sound on the other side of the door.

 

Anxiety and relief battle in her stomach as she realizes that they are going to do this.

 

But she’s too busy shielding herself from the fallen glass and listening at the door to see that ceiling is moving.

 

A dark silhouette ascends from above, one of the ceiling tiles having been removed, and he's right above Mal, and she doesn't know it.

 

“I almost got it, Regina!  We’re gonna get out!”

 

Regina turns her head, ready to congratulate it, when she spots the figure posed right above Mal, reaching for her....

 

“Oh god, Mal! He’s here! He’s—“

 

She wasted a few precious milliseconds paralyzed in fear.  The killer is there, hanging upside down from the ceiling, an arm reaching to grab Mal's hair before she can even turn.

 

“RUN!” Mal screams at her, but Regina cannot.

 

She’s paralyzed, has to watch.

 

Mal tries to fight but she’s been surprised and grabbed before she has time to maneuver away. The killer ( _he,_ Regina thinks, he's tall, and strong and most likely male) grabs her by the hair, lifting her high enough with one hand to reach her throat with the one that is holding the knife.

 

He slits her throats before Regina can even stand.

 

Mal’s screams are gurgled and wet, blood splattering on Regina and the towels and every object in the room, wet, and warm, and absolutely awful.

 

All this time they were watching doorways and trying to figure out how he so carefully disappeared the scene of a crime.

 

She never thought about the vents.

 

He always had an advantage, watching from above.

 

“RUMFH!” Mal says again to Regina,and she thinks she’s telling her to run,  another urge for her to fight for her own life, but this time her voice struggles to carry over the blood that must be pooling in her throat.  She coughs, more blood splatters.

 

“M-Mal!” she manages to cry out.  But now Mal’s body crumples on the floor below, she is gone.

 

And Regina knows she is next.

 

Mal was stronger than her.  She thrived in a crisis.

 

If anyone could survive this, it would be her.

 

Everyone's gone, and they will get her next.

 

But not right this moment, because the killer appears to be stuck.  Half his body in the ceiling above, half hanging upside down, and he’s struggling to get down and it gives her a second or two of time _._  

So she opens the door to the supply closet, shuts it behind her, locks it with Killian’s keys, and _runs._

 

She left her flashlight in that supply closet.  Real smart.  Even smarter?  She doesn't know where she's running.  

 

If she’s still moving, she’s alive.

 

So she’s going to keep moving for as long as she can.

 

After a few feet she genuinely wonders why she didn’t stay and fight him.  He had a knife, sure, but he was half upside down, and surely she had some sort of advantage.

 

It's not important now.  

 

She is running and she is _alive._

 

So she will keep running.

 

She will fight.

 

For as long as she can.

 

She can’t say why she chooses to go up the stairs instead of down them.  She’s not thinking about any strategy besides moving around.

 

She picks a floor and runs down the corridor blindly.  Maybe she can wait out the next few hours before sunrise.  Maybe she will magically find a gun, or some sort of secret stairwell.  

 

It doesn’t matter, really.

 

12 DOWN, 1 TO GO

 

She doesn’t see it written anywhere, doesn’t hear it being spoken, but the phrase echoes in her brain.

 

She tries to silence it, but her fear distracts her.  She's not paying attention, not able to think of what to do, not able to listen for the footsteps in front of her, or the sounds of clothing rubbing together as he approaches ever closer to her.

 

In fact she's so distracted that she doesn't just miss the fact that he's approaching.  No, she she runs right smack into _him._

 

Oh fuck.

 

That’s it then.  It’s over now.


	13. Chapter 13

A hand flies over her mouth, a soft calm voice whispers _shhh!_ in her ear.

 

Her blood rushes cold, body shakes and sweats.  There is a lot she’s capable of doing right now, but being _quiet?_

 

She will do nothing of the sort.  His hand may muffle her screams, but she screams anyway, shouting and asking him how he is alive standing there when she watched him die.

 

_Robin._

 

He was behind this all along.  He had to be, right?  And, oh god, what type of torture does he have in store for her now?

 

“The place is bugged, they have everything set up in the security guard’s room,” he whispers, “You need to be quiet.  Don’t scream, okay?”

 

She still tries to scream, wondering how long it is until daylight. Maybe someone can hear, maybe… But his hand just clasps against her lips tighter.  

 

She can’t fight him.  

 

She just has to listen.  

 

So she nods finally, stops trying to scream, and waits.

 

Split seconds later he releases his hand from her mouth.  

 

She steps two giant steps back from him, shaking.  

 

“Mal?” He whispers cautiously.

 

Her eyes fill with fresh tears, a sob threatens to break free from her throat, but she can’t make a noise, so she closes her lips right and shakes her head.

 

“Jesus,” Robin utters, “I’m sorry, but look, we have to go.”

 

He tries to pull her with him, but she freezes.

 

He’s so callous about Mal’s death, and shit, that’s another sign, isn’t it?

 

“Come on,” he says, “into the stairwell.  They are using the vents, that’s how they are getting around.  The stairwells are actually the safest place to be.  Let’s go.”

 

But he died.

 

At least, she thought he did.  She remembers the blood pouring from his chest, the way his body fell to the floor, no, she didn’t imagine that.  

 

But now he’s alive, coaxing her without even an explanation for how he’s essentially risen from the dead.  

 

“Regina?  What’s the matter?”

 

“I watched you die,” she whispers, looking into the blackness behind her, to her side, searching for any escape from _him._  “I watched.  I saw the blood, Robin.  H-how are you alive?”

 

Robin smiles and pulls out his phone.  The one with the ridiculously ornate, metal gold plated, mobster style iphone.  It’s cracked and splintered, but still in one piece. It’s also… tinged red.  But how is that possible?

 

“I got lucky,” he explains.  “The bullet hit me right here.”

 

“The blood,” she reminds him, because there was blood, so much blood.

 

Robin _ahhs_ and rushes to explain.  “Another fortunate turn of events.  I had blood packets in that pocket.  Graham and I…” he smiles, shaking his head wistfully, “We were going to pull a prank on Jefferson.  Fake an argument… I realize now how terrible that would have been...can we go now?”

 

It’s certainly a coincidence, and sounds like it’s a shotty story, but right now she doesn’t care enough to argue.  She certainly can’t run away from him now.  If he is the killer, he already has her.  She will just wait... wait for a time to escape when he is not right next to her.

 

So she nods, dumbly, following him down the stairwell, hoping he’s not leading her to her doom.

 

“That orthodontist actually has his own exit.  They boobytrapped that, too, but it was easy to disarm.  Took a matter of minutes.  Your standard live wire wrapped around the handle.  I used rubber gloves and some pliers and got out, made it look like—”

 

She can feel they aren’t alone. Feels it like a shiver down her spine.  

 

She grabs his arm in silent warning, and he nods, sees the shadowed figure and _smiles._   

 

Someone is standing, peering out an _open_ window across the corridor.  

 

Perhaps Robin set it up as a trap, and that’s why he looks so pleased with himself.  Because now their killer thinks they jumped, maybe a few stories below, and are on the run.

 

If Robin isn’t the murderer she sure was fuck isn’t going to tell him she’s been suspecting him for the last few minutes.

 

The killer is leaning out the window, probably trying to see where they might have gone.  

 

The door to the stairwell is next to them.  They are so close, so close to escape.

 

But this person has killed all her friends, and he is vulnerable.

 

And suddenly her mind sees red, unable to resist the satisfying thought of ending this bastards sorry life.

 

Robin is wildly motioning her back to the stairwell, but she won’t hear any of it.

 

She passes the door to the stairwell and creeps towards the man dressed in black.  The man who killed Mal.

 

He needs to pay.

 

She’s stalking slowly towards him, and suddenly she feels a surge of power, of pure giddy delight at finally being the hunter instead of the hunted.  

 

Her pulse quickens, breathing all but stops.  Robin is behind her, too afraid of making a noise to argue but so clearly not approving of her actions.  

 

Just a bit closer...

 

So close, she can almost touch his back, just a few more footsteps…

 

Silent now...

  


“AHHH!”

 

It’s a tribal, warrior sound, the killer makes as he spins around in front of her, knife in hand, waving at her in the dark, and that’s it, he’s going to stab her.

 

She should have just gone down that stairwell.

 

She hadn’t been sneaking up on him after all.

 

He had been _waiting_ for her.  He had been playing her.  And now he’s going to win.

 

This was a trap.  A final trap and she fell for it.  

 

But Robin is there, Robin is there, thank fuck, and it seems the killer didn’t expect him from the gasp he makes when he sees him.  No, he didn’t expect the dead to come back to life, so they have that advantage.  Robin catches his knife wielding hand at the wrist, twisting it until the weapon falls free from out of the killer’s hand.

 

Dawn is approaching now.  It is still mostly dark, but there’s a gentle beginning of morning, seeping out through the broken window, soft streaks of lavender and amber providing just enough light to make the killer’s face visible.

He looks like a predator looking at prey, wild and crazy, and it's terrifying.

 

But she also recognizes him… he’s…  that IT guy.  The creepy guy who was always reminding them he went to med school. What was his name?

 

Oh what does it matter what his name is? He's about to end their lives.  

 

Mr. Med School manages to kick Robin off of him, and he’s on his stomach on the floor, attempting to get up… and something in her just _snaps._  She grabs the fallen knife and stabs the killer in the back, _hard._

 

She wants to take it out, to stab again and again until there is nothing left, until he is a bloody pincushion of flesh and bone, but Robin is lifting him and bum rushing him towards the open window, pushing him out.

 

He falls (it’s then she realizes they are up high, had she climbed to the sixth floor?).  His body crashes into the pavement below with a sickening splatter.

 

That’s it, then.

 

“Whale,” Robin whispers.  “That was Victor Whale.  Gold fired him a few months ago, remember?  Said he seemed a bit mentally unstable.  Well, I guess he showed Gold just how crazy he could be.”

 

Regina tries to laugh, but all that can come out is a dry, emotionless sob.

 

“Come on,” Robin urges, “it’s all over now.”

 

She’s walking down the stairwells in a daze.  He’s holding her hand, urging her forward.

 

She can’t hear anything or see anything.  The world is dark and full of white noise.  Everything is just… surreal.  

 

Her feet don’t even feel like they are on solid ground, she feels like she’s suspended in midair, weightless, about to fall.

 

But Robin is there, and he is alive, and he is strong, and he is leading her somewhere safe.

 

She’s dizzy and nauseous, and her hands are stained with her closest co-workers blood (and friend, she knows that now, they were friends), and that is all she can think about as she rounds every useless corner of the stairs.

 

But when they walk back into that damned orthodontist’s office, the one that was the sight of Robin’s death, a sense of dread fills her.

 

Robin shines his light to the door that says EMPLOYEES ONLY (dawn is approaching and there’s almost enough light for her to make it out herself without the flashlight, and that’s a good sign, isn’t it?  So why is she so nervous?).

 

Regina follows Robin towards the exit.  It’s cluttered here, spare equipment scattered haphazardly around, drawers and shelves covering every open inch of space.

 

The door to the outside is still propped open.  

 

This is it, they are going to make it, just a few feet.  

 

This whole mess is over.  Just a few more steps....

 

“STOP!”

 

She hears the telltale sound of a gun being cocked behind her and freezes.  Robin does too.

 

“Turn around, both of you.  I’ll shoot, I swear I will.”

 

She turns around and unprepared for the person in front of her.

 

There, in the body of some, half gorilla, half wookie monstrosity of a costume, is Greg Mendell.  His mask is off, and well, that’s _not_ a good sign, is it?  

 

Another bad sign?  The gun in his hand.  And he knows how to use it, he does.  When Greg used to work for them, he had a habit of talking about all his evenings at the gun range.

 

He wouldn’t leave the women in the office alone, though, so he had to be fired.

 

“Well, well, well,”  Greg sneers.  “Who would have thought you’d be the last two standing?  The _whore_ and the teflon don,” he spits in their general direction, adding a cursed “I’m going to have to kill you one after another now, what a shame.  I did like seeing how terrified you were when we were picking ya off one by one.”

He says he likes seeing her terrified so she fights looking it right now, holds her head high and fights the tremble in her bones.  It helps that Robin is next to her, standing tall, taking a step towards Greg instead of a step back.  It's easier to be brave with him at her side.  

 “Tell us why, Greg.” Robin asks.  He’s still confident, and she wonders if he knows something she doesn’t.  He’s certainly not acting like a man on his last seconds on earth.  “Tell us why you did this to us.  You owe us this, at least.”

 

Greg seems positively thrilled with the opportunity to share, eyes widening as a grin spreads ear to ear.  

 

“You don’t know?” he asks, “you don’t know what a bunch of petty, terrible people you are?  Who deserve to be punished horribly, by the way…” He looks at Regina, motioning at her with the gun.  “I tried to be nice to you, you know.  To all of you bitches. But nice guys never get far, do they?  I would have treated you so well.  But you all went for assholes.  Graham is a stupid jock, Jefferson’s half crazy, David is a cheating asshole, Killian’s a drunk, and _you,”_ he points his gun at Robin. _“_ You are the worst one because you pretend to be so chivalrous to their faces, but it’s all a facade isn’t it?  You’re just a smooth talking liar.  And it’s so easy for you, making my those sales, bragging about your skills to talk anyone into a deal, getting the attention of all the women as if it were nothing…” He scows.  “I’m glad I get to kill you.  Though, I hoped  to stick that giant head of yours through the commercial shredder, but… I suppose a shot to that inflated head of yours will have to do.”

 

She closes her eyes, waiting for the sound of the trigger, but Robin takes a small step forward and distracts him yet again. “All this work to kill us just because you can’t get laid,” Robin laughs, “Pathetic, when you think about it.  We will be dead but you’ll still be sad and alone.  No woman wanting you—“

 

“Oh I think _plenty_ of woman will want me once I have the company’s money,” he cackles. He shrugs his shoulders and adds, “shame about Whale, but that means more money for me.  Because you see, a few months ago, Gold and our new consulting firm brokered a great deal for hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of work.  And you see he _just_ paid us our fee today.  Whale took care of _all_ the paperwork, and transferred the funds.  And with no witnesses… well, no one will be able to prove the contract was fraudulent.  Admit it,” he turns to Regina, waving his gun madly, “you’d suck my dick _gladly_ if I had the money to treat you to all the things money can buy.”

 

Her stomach flip flops, hen bile rises in her throat and she destroy tries to think of some way to avoid being killed by _this_ man.  Anyone but him.

 

“You know,” Greg says, taking a few steps closer to her, “you seemed like such an uptight little lady at work, so refined. But I followed you one night, I went out to that little bar you like.” He takes yet another step closer, gun still aimed at her chest, but now he’s within arm’s length of her.

 

Robin moves, and Greg cackles, aiming his gun squarely at Regina’s head.  “You so much as move an inch, Locksley, and I kill her.”

 

He should run.  One of them is going to die, at least.  And he’s quick and lucky.  He could escape all this, he could…

 

But Robin doesn’t move a muscle, freezes in place.

 

Greg laughs triumphantly.  “I like a man who follows orders.” And then he reaches out with his free arm to stroke Regina’s hair, the other hand still on his gun.  “As I was saying, I saw you out on the town, acting like a whore, looking for men to service to your every needs… you were  _desperate_ for a pounding. Threw out your tits and wiggled your ass at all those idiots and even went home with one of them — when I was here the whole time.  Available. But like every woman you went for an asshole.”

 

“You’re an asshole too,” Regina scowls and grits her teeth ready to be shot at any second.  And fuck it, because she’ll be damned if she sucks up to this pathetic man if it’s her last days on earth.  “You’re just an _ugly_ asshole.”

 

She watches as his expression changes from cocky satisfaction to pure unadulterated rage.  Eyebrows narrow, those beady eyes go wide, lips pulled back in a snarl.  “I’ll show you how fucking _ugly_ I am!”

 

She stares him right in the eyes.  She won’t go down weak or scared, she won’t give him that.

 

She’s going to go out fighting.  She locks eyes with him and tries to convey exactly how _unafraid_ and _unimpressed_ with him she is, and then...

 

He only lays a hand on her shoulder, only begins to tug at the fabric of her shirt, but it’s enough to make her wonder if death is coming after something much worse, and no, that won’t be happening—

 

“Get off her!”

 

She hears the smack of Robin's arms as they clasp on Greg’s gun wielding arm.  

 

Greg shrieks.  It’s angry and terrified at the same time, frustrated and _crazy,_ and then they both fight for their lives.  

 

They get twisted around each other, Robin ending up behind Greg, forcing his gun wielding hand in the air, so it isn’t pointed at anyone.

 

“Run!” He pants in a frustrated breath, “get out of here, Regina!”

 

But it is taking all his limbs — and his strength — to keep Greg in this position.  He’s strong but Greg is wiley and angry and accessing some sort of super strength.

 

Greg will get out of this odd sort of headlock eventually, and then he will have a gun, and Robin…

 

She’s not heading towards the door, she’s following the struggle, waiting for an opportunity to help.

 

And then she has a clear shot of Greg, where she can place her hands on his neck and kick a knee between his legs hard.

 

Greg doesn’t want to show the pain.  He doesn’t want to react.

 

But he’s only a man, afterall.

 

He doubles over in pain, cursing her, reminding her what a bitch she is, and Regina has never been prouder of herself.

 

Robin toppled over on top of them, and there’s a struggle now, they are a mess of tangled limbs rolling on the floor, growls and curses spilling from both men.

 

And then an earsplitting _Bang!_ echoes and reverberates in the room, the smell of gunpowder fills the air, and her blood rushes cold.

 

Shit.

 

Her stomach drops and dizziness sets in.  But she won’t collapse — won’t faint.  She’s frozen in place, unable to move, let alone look to see if that bullet hit anything.

 

Everything goes blank and silent, except for the voice in her head screaming that her actions — her attempt to help Robin against his own orders — may have just cost him his life.

 

She’s spiralling down a black hole of guilt and fear until it registers that someone is shaking her.

 

“Regina?  Regina are you okay?  I got him.  I got him, Regina.”

 

She hadn’t even realized she had been closing her eyes.  She opens them, then, and it’s Robin there, blood all over his ridiculous pinstripe suit, that absurd look of concern he has with those eyebrows bent upwards and that obnoxious worried pout.  Oh, who is she kidding.  She loves that look.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks needlessly

 

He nods, squeezes her shoulder.  “Greg is dead, Regina. It’s really over, this time.”

 

.::.

 

They walk a half mile to the 24 hour diner, covered in blood and looking like they’ve been to hell.

 

But it’s Halloween, after all, and no one gives them a second look.

 

Neither of them scream or ask for help once they arrive.  They just sit there, next to the _Please Seat Yourself_ sign, and use their now-working cell phones to call the police.

 

911 sounds a bit skeptical, and Regina can’t even blame them.  She’s sure there’s been prank calls that sounded more believable than what they went through.

 

But she hears the ambulance going down the street, and thinks they must be on the way to the office.  

 

Hopefully they brought enough body bags.

 

The police arrive to the diner eventually.

 

It’s a blur after that.  

 

She feels like she’s outside of her body, watching herself give the same answers to the same questions.  And there are so many questions, from so many different officers.

 

All she can think of are the faces of her coworkers that she will never see again.  

 

She is exhausted, jaded, and anxious.  Paramedics are looking her over now, commenting on bruises and cuts she wasn’t even aware she had.

 

“Let’s get you both to the hospital,” the kind officer who had given her a cup of hot cocoa says.  “As a precautionary measure, just to check you out.”

 

She barely has the strength to argue.

 

.::.

 

It’s in the ambulance that she first realizes Robin is in worse shape than she thought.  He’s being bandaged, his hands are full of cuts and scrapes, and it seems he may have cracked a rib (or two).

 

He’ll heal up just fine though.

 

Physically, at least.  Whether either of them heal from the psychological trauma remains to be seen.  

 

And it seems the paramedics and officers must know that, the way they are keeping the conversation light hearted, talking about the weather and asking if they watch _Game of Thrones._

 

But she can’t just act like nothing has happened.  

 

“Did you find...everyone?” she asks the younger paramedic who introduced himself as Michael.  He looks up at his coworker, as if unsure to answer.

 

“We haven’t heard from that ambulance in awhile,” Michael admits, “but, I did hear they found… um, a lot of dead people.  They are still searching the place.  But don’t worry about that.  You two are safe and alive.  Think happy thoughts.”

 

She nods.  Not even having the strength for tears or argument.

 

.::.

 

Regina needs her wounds cleaned out, some glass has sprayed into her arms, a gash needs to be butterflied shut, but she is otherwise fine.

 

Robin needs treatment.

 

Shards of glass are in his skin, and he’s bruised, badly from where the bullet hit him.  The killer apparently stomped on him when he was playing dead after the _first_ shot was fired.  It resulted in some broken ribs.

 

Robin had the good sense to not react at all.  His ability to withstand the pain probably saved him his life, but god, running around with cracked ribs could not have been easy.  And wrestling another grown man… fuck.

 

He did it for her.

 

She’s free to go home, technically, but she’s not quite ready to go back to her apartment alone yet (truly she’s not ready to ever go _anywhere_ alone).  

 

So she’s in Robin’s bed, laying next to him, an arm around him.

 

She really should not be on this hospital bed, she’s been shooed away twice by nurses, but she just wants to be close to him.  Her hands keeping weaving through his hair, drawing out these little pleasure filled sighs out of Robin that make her feel so _normal._

 

And she can’t stop kissing him.  Not aggressive, we’re-about-to-fuck kisses, but soft snacks of the lips, pecks on his forehead and cheek, even his nose and ears.  He returns the kisses, deepening some of them to _more,_ and she lets him, gladly.

 

She’s so grateful for him.  He saved her.

 

“What I said before,” he whispers into the space between them, “I meant it.  Mean it.  Truly.”

 

She knows what he's talking about.  He's telling her he meant what he said when he told her that he loves her.  And he wants her to say the same, that she loves him too.  But she’s not sure that’s wise. There may no longer be the threat of death, but endorphins are running high, and he _saved her life._ Risked his own life _for her._ More than once.

 

“I meant it too,” she gives, before cautioning, “but we should probably slow down.  Maybe go on a few dates before we start saying that.”

 

He laughs, wincing when his belly shakes and jostles his tender ribs. “Fair enough.  But my feelings for you are real.  And they aren’t going away.”

 

She smiles and kisses him again, tenderly.  "Right now you're on so much morphine that I'd be surprised if you have any feelings left," she teases.

 

He shakes his head.  "No,darling, all the morphine in the world couldn't dull these feelings"

She’s never been much for sentimental talk, so she chickens out and lightens the mood.  “You know, it’s a shame you probably are restricted from sexual activities for a bit.  Because you may be the only person on earth to look sexy in a hospital gown.”

He chuckles, this time holding his stomach in place as he does.  “The doctor can sod off with that order.  I don’t care if I pop all my stitches and break another rib, you’re worth it.  I _know_ you are. Just tell me when, and I’m in.”

 

She laughs and rolls her eyes.  Neither of them are truly in the mood for sex, she knows.  Still it’s nice to talk about something other than death.

 

And he is rather nice to look at, even in the hospital gown.

 

She’s never letting him out of sight, ever again.

 

Officer Hot Cocoa (his name is Darren, it turns out) comes back to interrupt their moment, though.  He coughs and draws attention to himself, breaking a little kiss that had a bit of heat to it (but still rather innocent).   

 

“Sorry kids, just a few follow up questions.”

 

“Anything we can do to help,” Regina assures.  Her eyes are on him, but she’s still not shifted out of Robin’s embrace.

 

She won’t apologize for seeking comfort and love after surviving a trauma.

 

“So you said this Victor Whale guy, you pushed him out of the building?” Darren asks, curiously.

 

“Yes,” Regina swallows thickly.  “His — the body… Maybe it’s not identifiable, the way he fell but…”

 

“Actually, we’ve done a sweep over the entire building and the surrounding area,”  Darren explains.  “We think we may have the area where he fell, but the body appears to be missing.  Are you sure he didn’t survive the fall?”

 

“He… couldn’t.” Regina says, a shiver down her spine.  “He couldn’t, we were so far up, and he dropped, and I saw his body… and I stabbed him in the back!”

 

“Is it possible Greg Mendel hid his body somewhere?” Darren asks, “In the time—”

 

“No, Greg didn’t have enough time.” Robin says immediately, “we saw him a few minutes later.  If he could have hid the body it wouldn’t be a clever hiding spot.”

 

Darren frowns and nods.  “Well, we’re going to continue doing a search of the office.  We are finding a lot of bodies.  They liked to use the elevator shafts, apparently, including the freight elevator shaft, for body storage.  You probably never thought to check there, since the power was out.  But I guess they had some way of opening and closing the doors, they used this battery-powered contraption that appeared to work with a remote, then threw the bodies down the shoot and closed it back up again.  It worked.  There were few oddly placed boobytraps too, you guys were lucky you had only fell victim to _one_ of those.  Two of you count that oil they slicked around the edges of the roof.  Anyway we found some other….weird things.”  He chuckles darkly.  “We found this costume, man, no idea what it was about.”  He takes out his phone, searching for a picture, and then shows it to them.

 

And Regina’s blood runs cold.  She can’t speak as Darren shows it to Robin.

 

It’s a black leotard of sorts, stained with blood.  Jagged pieces of….something that looks like bone stick from it.  It’s bent and twisted, and perhaps when worn, it could confuse a person into thinking a body was badly mutilated.

 

“Belle,” Regina says, in a shaky breath.  “All the lights were out, and there was all this blood around her, we never checked for a pulse, we never even got close to her body…”

 

“It was a fucking costume.  Belle,” Robin utters.  “Did—did you find her body?”

 

“Isabelle French?” Darren stares down at his notepad, looking at some sort of checklist that must have the status of each of her departed friends.  It seems so ungodly cruel for them to be reduced to a missing or found status.   “Not yet, last I heard we’re still trying to track her body.”

 

“She’s not dead,” Robin says plainly.  “She’s one of them.”

 

“ _Belle_?” Darren scoffs.  “She was always baking for the department, she volunteered down at the youth center. What reason would she have to go on a killing spree?”

 

.::

 

“Cheer up,” Victor says again, pulling back a strand of Belle’s hair with his broken hand.  A small break, he thinks, based on his medical knowledge.  He’s already splinted it, and it’s holding quite nicely.  His left ankle may also be broken - or badly twisted, so they will need to get to a Mexican doctor who keeps his mouth shut right away.  Regina’s got poor stabbing aim, it seems, because she failed to hit anything vital.  He was able to bandage up the wound in his back for now. But other than those two injuries he’s relatively unscathed.  

 

Not bad for a six story fall.  In fact his relatively small injuries should please Belle.  Isn’t surviving large falls something out of a good horror story?

 

Speaking of Belle, he really should let her drive, considering he’s been fighting the pain with enough vicodin to sedate an elephant, but frankly, he’ll be damned if a woman drives for him.  And she’s too upset to drive.  The poor girl, she _really_ doesn’t react well when things don’t go perfectly. But he likes her this way, she so much more alive, so much more passionate since she stopped taking her medication.  

 

He attempts to soothe her, to remind her of all that had gone _right._ “We’re alive.  We were able to withdraw a lot of that money from the account before we left… Greg’s dead which is great, because we were going to kill him anyway.  And, we made it to Mexico, and we gave two people nightmares for the rest of their lives.  That’s not a bad run, Izzie.”

 

He uses her pet nickname for her, the one she’s always liked, and he thinks it will get to her, make her smile warmly for him like she used to.

 

But Belle just scowls petulantly, looking out the window.  “But two people living is _not_ a good Halloween ending,” she insists.  “None of the best stories ends like this.  And Zelena went off and killed herself before we got to have fun with her.  And we didn’t get to mess with Jefferson the way we planned.  And I had _so much_ in the works for Regina and Robin.”

 

She huffs, spinning in the passenger seat, staring out the window.  

 

“It’s hard to beat a couple,” Victor reminds, “had I known how committed they were I would have made sure we attacked one of them first.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” she sighs.  “I should have figured it out before and planned for it.”

 

Fair enough.  Belle is a planner, a little research machine, and nothing if not a perfectionist.  So yes, there are ways to improve. But she still did quite well, for a first-timer.

 

“Okay, how nice was it to kill your asshole ex boyfriend-slash-boss?” Whale asks.  

 

Belle smiles, she can’t help it.  Thatta girl.  

 

“I really thought he was going to remember that I could do this.” She holds her hand up, let’s those double jointed bones work their magic, flipping her wrist around. “He knew how many different strange positions I could get my body—“

 

“Enough!” Victor says, holding his wounded hand to his ear, “I don’t want to be reminded that he’s seen that much of you, Izzie.”

 

“Well, he has no one to blame but himself for last night.  As did all of them.  Every year, I beg them to go to a haunted house or a hayride, or even just a party with me, but nooo…” She sighs and smile, “I had to bring the Halloween fun to them.”

 

“And you did,” Victor reminds, “didn’t you?”

 

She giggles.  “I suppose you are right, and Gold’s death was _so fun_ . Graham’s was a lot of fun too.”  She frowns then, collapsing back into the passenger seat.  “It was _brilliant._ But no one got to see it...”

 

“The police will,” Whale reminds, “I bet it makes all the papers, how he choked on his own underwear band.”

 

Belle giggles then, a cute little laugh.  This is working.  He’s cheering her up.

 

“And you know, we had to kill that extra security guard who was hanging out with his pal, _and_ Greg died, so technically there were thirteen deaths on Halloween, just like you wanted.”

 

Now _that_ seems to brighten the mood, has her smiling ear-to-ear.  “That’s true…” she says, satisfied for a moment, before pouting again.  “But Vic, I had so many wonderful things planned for Robin and Regina!”

 

“Well,” Victor says warmly, patting her leg with his bandaged paw, offering her a reminder that has her smiling as big as the sun, “there’s always next year.”


End file.
